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

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

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 31 text:

ink pot if you will, sir THERE was no doubf abouf if: Geoffrey was more 'rhan an excellenf valef, He was superb. Indispensable, wifhouf a doubf. Imagine having To go on wifhouf him! Unheard of, for no one could equal Geoffre . Why, even his pafience was unmafched. Affer fwelve years of faifhful service, Geoffrey sfill prepared Mr. Ranf for his shower af nine every morning, and wifh almosl' clockalike regularify, waifed wifhouf, dressing robe in hand, Iisfenin fo his masfer. Now fake me, for insfance, Geoffrey. There was I, a babe in arms, handicapped from fhe very beginning because I was born of wealfhy parenfs. From The very firsf, I was desfined 'ro be a rich man's son. Buf nof for long! The spirif of democracy was in my blood: I was fhe na+ion's hope! I was youfh! . . . Oh-er, Geoffrey, furn down fhaf hof wafer a bif .... Tha+'s a boy! Fine! . . . Now ah, where was I? . . . Oh, yes! . . . Well, as I was saying, fhere was I, 'rhe nafion's hope! Youfhl Nof 'ro be downed by unforfunafe birfh! . . . Slowly buf sfeadily I made my way in fhe world. The name of Arlingfon Edward Rani' would live forever! . . . College, as you know, was an unforfunafe experience .... Buf I was young fhen, a Iad, and how was I fo realize fhaf work, and only work, makes fhe man? . . . Geoffrey, hand me a fowel, will you? . . . Thanks .... Onward, onward I pressed: forcing my way fhrough sham and freachery, my goal fhe fopl . . . Ah, my robe, Geoffrey .... Nof a penny of my fafher's money would I accepf. I was a man! A man sfanding on his own fwo feef, for beffer or for worse! Then . . . fhen came fhe crash. Ancl wifh if wenf my hopes . . . my dreams . . . my chances! . . . Bul' even fhaf could nof puf me down! I wenf fo work! My posifion was unimporfanf, buf a sfepping-sfone. I found if impossible, however, +o confinue There. Nof a place fo park my car within fwelve blocks! Again I wenf in search of work. If I may, sir, pleaded Geoffrey. , Yes, Geoffrey, I know .... You wanf fo say fhaf I sfill 'haven'f a posifion. No mafferl I sfill have my fighfing spirifl I shall reach fhe fop . . . evenfually. I beg 'ro say, sir, again inferrupfed Geoffrey. Geoffrey, I realize your senfimenfs. I+ is frue fhaf I am geffing on in years. . . . Buf greaf men have offen labored on unfil . . . I beg fo inferrupf, sir, buf fhe felephone, sir. Well, well, Geoffrey, why didn'f you say so? . . . Hello? H'are ya, Pafer? Whaf? Whafl? Fer gosh sakm, Pafer, whaf in fhe devil do ya expecf a guy fo live on? II s fhe fhird 'rime you've cuf my allowance fhis monfh! Have a hearf, Pafer! Why fhaf isn'f even enou h fo pay Geoffrey! . . . Whaf? . . . O. K. I'Il be righi' over. Drawing himseff 'ro his fullesf heighf, dignify prevailing, Arlingfon Edward Ran? addressed his man, As I was saying, Geoffrey . . . JEAN A. GREENBERG, '39. dejected ASHORT, dark, sfubby figure paced slowly up and down in fronf of a large fheafre. He wore a yellow sign before and affer him, proclaiming fhis fheafre unfair fo his acfors' sociefy. His red nose was badly in need of a handkerchief, and his suif and coal' badly in need of mending. I wonder, wifh all fhe wear and fear on his shoes, was his message heeded? MARGARET I-IESS, '40, fwenfy-seven