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

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ink pot wasp waist vs black mustache FOR as many years as I can remember, our family has Taken reaT pride in one pos- session. We have moved abouT from ciTy To counTry and bactic again, and always our Treasured memory book has come wiTh us. A home wiThouT a picTure album is as cold and unfriendl as a home wiThouT radiafors. To The older people in our family, The album brings back memories oT The days gone by, and, for The younger elemenT, iT in- variably provokes IaughTer and amusemenT. We simply cannoT become senTimenTal when we see our favoriTe aunT gazing aT us in The mosT absurdly-fashioned producf of The milliner's arT. To our aunf, The years swifTly unfold Themselves and perhaps bring back pleasanT memories, buT for our parT, we cannoT prefend To become Teary and emofional. Somehow, The masculiniT of men in Those days was recorded in The annals of a personal album. ln our very family one finds exacT reproclucfions of whaT we call our modern Tarzan. IT is noT an uncommon picTure aT all To see uncles and cousins peeping ouT of Trees. A Tamer, buT sTill a sTrong Tarzan is always found sTanding beside his wife in every picTure of a happily married couple, which brings me To one picTure ThaT is quiTe amusing. MoTher is siTTing on a high-backed, ornaTely Tiligreed chair, and Dad, of The celluloid collar and severely-Tailored black frock coaT, is sTanding beside her. One's aTTenTion is drawn immediaTeIy To a peculiar ouTline on The chair. Yes, iT is The mosT incredibly small waisTIine one ever did see. l'm ashamed To Think ThaT I measure TwenTy-seven inches when, aT my age, MoTher boasfed only eighfeen. Then we see an ebony-black someThing or oTher waving gracefully over Dad's face. Proudly he Tells us ThaT a Beau Brummel was noT a Beau Brummel wiThouT one. ApparenTly he was noT To be oufdone by The ofher dandies of ThaT day and age. BoTh ouTsTanding, I can r decide which is The more inspiring, a wasp waisf or a black musfache. CHARLOTTE SHNIPKIN, '38, starlight and embers WE had paddled abouT Tiffeen miles, in The scorching sun across The rough whiTe- capped lake. Now, as we saT around The blazing fire, we felT somehow conTenTed, and in The uTTer silence of The nighT sensed how really insignificanT we were. The sky was sTudded wiTh sfars and The norThern lighfs casT weird shadows across camel-humped mounTains. The embers glowed and There is noThing so beauTiTul To see or so delicious To smell as The saTin bark of whiTe birch as iT slowly burns. The red-gold colors danced on sun-Tanned faces wiTh ThoughTful eyes. There was a cerrain peace and perfecT undersTanding in The hearTs of everyone, as we saT, some wiTh immobile faces, oThers wiTh faces as innocenr as a child's, and some wiTh hidden Treasured Thoughfs ThaT were Their very own and could noT be inTerpreTed inTo words. We sang for awhile, and as our voices floaTed ouT across s+iII waTers, There came To us The sound of Taps, and wiTh iT a sense of securiTy. Perhaps, afTer all, There is a sandman, for our eyes were heavy Iidded and slumber overfook us, as we Thoughf, Gods in His heaven, aII's righT wiTh The worId. EDITH WILSON, '39. a rainbow An arTisT's brush SwepT across The sky In a curve Of magic beaufy. MARGARET HARTIG, '4l. forTy-five -Q

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ink pot what i think of war WHEN I Think how foolish men are, in wanTing To fighT each oTher, shed each oTher's blood and kill each oTher, I wonder if These are The same men who have creafed such masferpieces, invenfed such wonders as The Telephone, radio, Telegraph. phonograph, cable, airplane and auTomobile, all works of man's achievemenT. IT seems incredible ThaT men who have creaTed such wonders ever wanT To kill each oTher, To go back To primiTive Times when man was no more Than a roaming animal and had To Tighr The wild beasTs if he wanTed To live. In Europe Toda , The counTries are re-arming and Training Their children in ways of warfare. Think of! The horrors of The IasT war! How many people were killed, how much money losT, how many people influenced by The slaughTer. We all know of people who have Iosf Their sighT, Their hearing, an arm or a leg, who have received shell shock and are now suffering invalids due To The lasT war. When vou Think of war you Think of men fighTing in The Trenches, being killed. killing. This isn'T all. There are educaTed men who, more Than The soldiers, work for war. There are scienTisTs. all over The world, who now are searching for more deadly poisons To desTroy oTher human beings. The rich men who finance wars, The ammuniTion maker, The gun manufacTurer, and The war-plane builder all wanT war. War does no one any good. One counfry may become greedy and wanT more land or more power, buT The lives losT and properTy damaged more Than double The vicTory if There is any. No one wins: everyone loses, wheTher lives, properTy, or money. IT seems absoluTeIy impossible ThaT highly infellecfual men wanT To go backwards and Tigh+ like barbarians. I believe ThaT war is a sTep backward in civilizaTion and in naTions as highly civilized as Those of The world Today, There should be no ThreaT of war. CONSTANCE MEIROWITZ, '39, A P 5 sing sing routine BEING The firsT dressed in my cosTume, waiTing To go on, I sTood in The wings and peeped inTo The audiTorium. In a few minuTes I saw someThing I shall never forgeT. Alfhough I had seen iT in The movies, in real life iT senT shivers up and down my spine. Several hundred grey-garbed men of all ages were shuffling down The aisle. Their pale faces looked as if They were moulded in masks. Blue uniformed guards showed Them To Their seaTs, where They saT quieTly. STanding There, The ThoughT came To me of all The ones who were so dear To Them. To whom They had broughT disgrace and misery. Suddenly The music began To play and a voice called, CurTain. PATSY AUERBACH -41 weathered H E saT wiTh his back To a pile on The wharf, his crisp grey hair framing a face Tanned and lined by his many years of conTacT wiTh The sea. The cord, wiTh which he was mending a fish neT, flashed in and ouT in his long, dexTrous fingers. His eyes were a deep blue which reflecfed The azure of The waves over which his gaze wandered. When any alien sound came To his ear, his eyes darTed abouT inquisiTively. His chin was square and firm, showing an obdurafe personaliTy. He smiled as The IiTTle children, frolicking on The sandy beach, Then Tiring of Their play, came To him for a sTory of his seafaring days. Then, as a IiTTle boy climbed upon his knee, he soffened and Told his sTory in a voice which rang like a bell, mingling pleasanfly wiTh The slap of The waves upon The beach. The gulls circling above seTTIed down in an aTTiTude rivalling ThaT of The children, one denofing inTeresT, pleasure and well-being. SARA PERLISH, '4-0. forTy-four

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ink poi secret passions of an undergraduate GAUNT and Treckled was my kid broTher aT The brave age oT sixTeen and a half. Hopelessly overcome by some presenT Teminine TIaTTery, Bobby was a problem chilp. For anyone sTudy:ng a course in adolescenf psychology he would have been a per ecT specimen To ana ze. AT one Time during his illusTrious career Ialong aThIeTic linesl Bobby's acTions were becoming a biT puzzling. He wasn'T a bad young one, buT, like all bo s, a liTTle unTidy, and a comb never ran Through his Tair hair buT once a day. How, like a clean spring wind. he blossomed inTo a perTecT genTIeman. His Tormer habiTs were mainly To run abouT The house knocking everyThing over in his paTh and leaving a scene behind him which resembled a sTreeT in war-Torn Madrid. WhaT was This change ThaT had come over him? His shoes were meTiculously shined each morning, and his hair, paTenT- IeaThered careTuIly, looked like Pinaud's TavoriTe adverTisemenT. OT course There was Carolinji picTure on hif burciaud? BuT he always complained abouT girls geTTing in his wa an ow sooner or aTer e' 'oin a monasTer . Y Well, one Tine morning, Bobby approachedyme aTTer breakTasT, and wiTh a grin on his Tace said, Come on, Sis, how abouT Two biTs? Sunkl I ThoughT: he saw me come in aT Three lasT nighT. He goT my IasT quarTer, and Trom Then on I kep+ an eye on him more closely Than ever. IT only I could discover whaT grade he had made on his French exam! CerTainIy, if he had passed, he wouldn'T keep ThaT a secreT Trom his ever-admonishing parenTs. And yeT iT couIdn'T be ThaT. Bobby was sTruggling againsT someThing sTilI greaTer Than he could cope wiTh. Poor kid, he asked Tor money, and I accused him oT Taking iT as hush money. Feeling an overwhelming surge oT older- sisTer responsibiliTy, I decided To aTTack This subiecT wiTh all The TacT and s mpaThy I could musTer: Poor Bobby, he is even now brooding up in his room insTeadl oT doing his homework. His li+TIe hearT breaking Tor wanT oT someone To confide in. Up I ran The TIigh+ oT sTairs To Bobby's room and opened The door slowly. There in The mirror I could see a reTIecTion oT him making The queeresT Taces and muTTering To be, or noT To be. I had all I could do To keep myself from shouTing wiTh laughTer as I Turned my back To slip ouT, when he spied me and called me back! ExerTing all his manliness he succeeded in quieTIy ThrusTing me inTo a chair. WiTh his hand covering his mouTh and one TooT unyieldingly placed on my poor Toe, he proceeded like This- HonesT, Sis, I love you, buT l won'T be responsible if l kill you or sumpin'. You musT never Tell whaT you iusT saw me doing. WiTh This he made me swear never To uTTer a word abouT his aspiraTions. He Then unToIded his Tale To me. He was going To be one oT The greaTesT Shakespearen acTors in The world. The money he Took was very sensibly in- vesTed in an impressive green covered book enTiTled How To ACT in Shakespeare! Dramas in TwenTy Easy Lessons. And a sub-TiTIe, Overcome STage Frighf by Fol- lowing Bill Shakespeare's Ten Easy Rules. Goodness! Bobby was going To be an acTor. And whaT is iT people say abouT girls being sTage sTruck? CHARLOTTE Sl-INIPKIN, '38. a valued treasure THE nighT is mosT exquisiTe and rare. IT gives The heavens Their holiesT hue. The sTars are sTudded againsT Their ebony background, and The divine moon shows above The Tops oT The snow-shining mounTains. NighT is The moTher oT ThoughTs and puTs old cares To TlighT. Some say ThaT nighT brings our Troubles To The lighT, raTher Than banishes Them. ThaT is noT True: iT Iulls The world To sleep and gives back The losT delighTs ThaT The soul once possessed. A dewy Treshness Tills The silenT air: no misT obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor sTain breaks The serene oT heaven. How beauTiTuI is f1l9h+! FANNIE MILLER, '39, TorTy-six