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

Page 29 text:

ink pot uncle alfie and his adventures U NCLE ALFIE was noT having a very pleasanf Time in The wilds of Arizona. lT all began when, one day, swimming in a small lake, he found ThaT his cloThes, which he had hung on The limb of a Tree, were gone. Poor Alfie! IT cerTainly wasn'T very digni- fied for a cerTified public accounTanT To race all over The place, aTTired only in MoTher NaTure's ouTfiT, pursuing his Two nephews whom he righffully suspecfed of having hid- den his cloThes. He finally caughT Them-and ThaT was ThaT. Every day, insTead of helping To clean The Trailer in which They were Traveling, Alf would say, Now, boys. leT's geT To work, and he would proceed To clean ouT his pipe. One day. his broTher-in-law said, Alfred, you don'T know how To clean a pipe. LeT me show you g and wiTh ThaT he em Tied The pipe. When Alfie's back was Turned, he pulled some hairs from The Tail ofia donkey sfanding near by, chopped Them up To- geTher wiTh some pieces of rubber bands, sfuffed Them inTo The pipe sTem, Then puT some Tobacco in The pipe. and gave iT back To iTs owner. Alfie liT iT, Took a puff-whaT in The world! Quickly he Took The Tobacco ouT of The pipe and refilled iT: The same Thing happened. He swore, buT iT sfayed ThaT way for a long Time, as Uncle Alf did noT wanT To clean The pipe for fear of insulTing his brofher-in-law by hinTing ThaT he had noT cleaned iT well. BuT alas, ThaT was noT The end of Alfie's Troubles. They wenT on a Trip The nexT day up To Rainbow Bridge, a wonder of naTure which so few people go To see because iT is so difficulT To geT To. They sTopped Their horses when They arrived There To see This marvelous sighT: everyone was looking and admiring iT, when up piped Alfie. as he nudged his brofher-in-law, Morris, look, There is Rainbow Bridge! Remarkable, wasn'T iT? ThaT nighT when The canTeens were being filled, one of The generous, ThoughTful liTTle boys ThoughT iT would be a cuTe idea To fill Uncle Alfie's wiTh four pollywogs, which he prompfl did. ThaT evening The boys, on examining The canTeen, saw There were only Three leflf. Uncle Alf, in all probabiliTy, had swallowed one. I am glad To sTaTe ThaT he survived-which only goes To prove ThaT whaT you don'T know won'T Trouble you. MARGARET HARTIG, '4I . age of youth Sixfeen years and baby face He approached her wiTh a grin, Prefends To be a man- Assumed a cocky air. Tries To arran e a hoT embrace His e es drank in her figure Thin VViTh any girlie can. And hasfily whispered a prayer. One day he passed upon The sTreeT He opened his mouTh and said, Hi Kid! A nifTy blonde in black. A sharp slap sTruck his cheek- As he winked, she clicked her feel' His blushing face he benT and hid And Turned her lovely back. And since has been quiTe meek. Sullenly and puT in place, SixTeen years and baby face He sadly looked around, No more assumes an air. And The ideal girl of all his dreams On Safurday nighT aT Ten o'clock He Thoughf ThaT he had found. He's in his bed upsfairs. BEVERLY GOLDSTEIN, '39 TwenTy-five

Page 28 text:

ink pot contemporary music hath its charms CONTEMPORARY music has aT lasT won iTs way To an imporTanT place in my musical Thoughfs. NoT so long ago, modern music appeared To me To confain iusT a series of weird, inharmonious noTes, wriTTen wiTh an uTTer disregard for paTTern or Theme. I was noT a Ii++Ie bewildered by if. However, Through much reiTeraTion. I have become accusTomed To iTs sTrange beauTy. and have even grown To love much of iT. BuT, There is s+iII modern music which sounds monoTonously uninspired and some which graTes on my ears. The beauTy in conTemporary music differs greaTl from ThaT of The classics. Brahms. BeeThoven. and MozarT sTaTed Their Themes aT The beginning of Their compo- siTions, and buiIT up numerous variafions around Them, whereas The modern composer will someTimes build up and up. before wriTing his Theme, which ofTen comes near The end of The piece. This. of course, makes The music much more difficulf To comprehend. and ofTen requires much repeTiTion To make iTseIf clear. ' I Think my favorife modern composifion is one by Debussy. His music alwa s gives me The feeling of being aparT from anyfhing ThaT is ear+hIy and maTTer-of-flacT. IT makes me experience a feeling of noT belonging To This everyday world of ours. The composifion is his Three Symphonic Skefches of The Sea. The firsf is called From Dawn To Moon aT Sea. The second. FroIics of The Waves. and The Third. Dialogue of Wind and Sea. I remember very disTincTly The firsT Time I heard This marvelous piece of music. IT was in Cleveland, The firsT year I had had a season Tickef To The Symphon ConcerTs. I was greaTIy excifed and Thrilled, and felT very grown up. When I heard! The eerie. opening bars of The firsT skefch, I could noT quiTe decide whaT To make of iT. Up To ThaT Time, I had heard very Ii++Ie modern music. As The music progressed, cerTain un- earThly chords and sequences chilled me Through and Through. During The whole per- formance, I grasped very IiTTIe of The acfual beauTy and depTh of The music. I only knew ThaT iT impressed me Tremendously. I was relieved when iT was finished. The nexT Time I heard This Debussy composiTion, I was several years older, and much beTTer equipped and mafured, musically, To aTTempT This Tremendous piece of music. This Time, from The opening bars, I saT enfranced. The conducfor, who sfood before me, waved his arms, and The orchesfra produced This beauTiful, efhereal music, which swelled To The deafening crescendoes of Trolicking seas, Then fell away To The sooThing murmurs of waTer falling over rocks, and from That fainT sound, away To nofh- ingness. IT was enchanTing. In This glorious world of sound, I feIT myself To be iusf an infinifesimal drop. The music expressed so clearly whaT The TiTles implied. I could almosT imagine The conversaTion befween The wind and The sea. When iT was finished, l had a very collapsed feeling inside of me. I had lisTened To Truly greaT music. Confemporary music has grown considerably in The IasT Tew years, and, To suc- ceed, needs only a more ToIeranT audience who will nof fear iT. FRANCES SHAPIRO. '38 pe-nsee d'amour Je pense a Toi quand Ie soleil se Ieve, J'y pense encore quand il finiT son cours, ET si parfois dans mon sommeil, ie reve C'esT au bonheur de vous aimer Touiours. RHODA MINTZ. '37. TwenTy-four

Page 30 text:

ink pol the samovar THE samovar, wiThouT which no Russian Table is compleTe, sTood on The small, bare Table in The cenTer oT The room. IT was a beauTiTul samovar. WiTh The blue and orange Tlames reTlecTed in iTs brigh+ and burnished sides, iT made The only cheerTul spoT in The dirTy, cluTTered room. The young girl who saT, lisTless and very cold, on a broken sTool in a corner oT The room was surprisingly beauTiTul Tor a peasanT. She had noT Their coarseness oT TeaTure. Her hair was golden and Tell in Two heavy braids below her waisT. Her brown eyes had a habiTually sorrowTul look. Her clear, whiTe skin conTrasTed sharply wiTh The weaThered, ruddy skin oT her broThers and sisTers. She was so much more delicaTe and reTined- looking. She seemed noT To belong To Them. The waTer in The samovar boiled aT lasT and senT up a column oT sTeam. IT had Taken a long Time To boil, due To The sparseness oT charcoal used. The girl goT up wearily Trom The sTool and seT abouT preparing Tea, There was very Ii++Ie Tea leTT To brew. She puT iT all inTo The Tea-poT and Tilled iT wiTh The boiling waTer. The children. who had been playing noisily on The cold, damp Tloor, came dashing over To her, ex- ciTed aT The sighT oT preparaTions Tor supper. Nadya, Ivan, Masha and Tamara, They all sTood waTching aTTenTivel as Sonya wenT on wiTh her work. They sighed, disap- poinTed, as she puT only hahgla loaT oT dried bread on The Table wiTh The Tea. This, Then, was To be Their supper. IT had been Their breakTasT, dinner, and supper Tor many days. Sonya cuT The bread in Tive even parTs, painTully aware of The hawklike gaze oT The children. Each eyed his piece oT bread, and ThaT oT The oThers, suspiciously. Then, saTisTied ThaT They were all oT The same size, They Tell hungrily To eaTing. They slopped Their Tea clumsily, Tinding iT diTTiculT To handle The cups wiTh Their swollen, chapped hands, blue Trom The cold. When They had Tinished Their so-called supper, and had picked The Table bare oT all crumbs, Sonya puT Them inTo Two broken-down beds in an adjoining room. They did noT undress, buT ,iusT huddled closely TogeTher, Trying To gaTher warmTh Trom The meager covers. Sonya wenT back To The oTher room and saT down close To The dying warmTh oT The samovar To waiT up Tor The reTurn oT her moTher. The Terrible hardships of The lasT Tew years Tlashed Through her mind. FirsT, There was her TaTher's deaTh, his burial com- pleTely draining Their small savings. Then The selling, one by one, oT everyThing They ad Treasured, down To bare necessiTies. The samovar, by which she now saT, was The lasT remaining Treasure. She was Tully decided noT To parT wiTh iT under any circum- sTances. She remembered so disTincTly The day her grandTaTher had died. His lasT words had been To keep and cherish The samovar as long as They lived. IT had been given To him by his grandTaTher and was generaTions old. She had sTood by his bed, a small girl, inTensely awed and TrighTened by The sighT oT deaTh, and her grand- TaTher's words were engraved in her hearT. Never, never would she parT wiTh The samovar. As she saT There, brooding sadly, her moTher came in silenTly and sTood, shivering, aT The door. She worked as a servanT Tor The well-To-do peasanTs of The village. WiTh chaTTering TeeTh, and Tears sTreaming down her haggard Tace, she halTingly Told her daughTer ThaT she had been Told noT To come back To work any more. WiTh winTer coming on, They had no need oT so many servanTs. There was only one way To ToresTall sTarvaTion-sell The samovar. Sonya gasped. She shook her head wildly, buT There was no help Tor iT. The nexT day The samovar wenT The way oT all Their Treasures. Sonya's beauTiTul Tace, swollen wiTh ceaseless cry- ing, Took on an uTTerly hopeless look as The door closed on her moTher and The samovar. Her lasT joy in liTe had been Taken away. LiTe was so dreary andblack, hardl worTh The Trouble oT living. So saT This young girl, already beaTen b The cruelTy oT liTie. FRANgES SHAPIRO, '38. TwenTy-six