Cambridge Latin High School - Review Yearbook (Cambridge, MA)

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.- -. if Y 4 The Cambridge SWIMMING AND SUNBASKING IT is a sweltering ,summer day in the middle of July. I am gingerly dipping my big toe in the tiny, little waves which are playing tag with the soft ,velvety sands of the beach. I discover the water to be deliciously cool, and I bravely take three steps in. What a shock! The waves foam about my ankles, numbing them with icy precision, my whole body trembles like a bowl of jack Benny's jello. Back to the shelter of the warm sands I rush. in order to recover. But soon those frothing waves, like the top of a vanilla ice cream soda, tempt me again. This time a deep determination to overcome these waters which seem to mock my fear, creeps over me. I take a deep breath, shut my eyes tightly, and run in with a great deal of splashing. The next thing I know, I am swimming about and be- ginning to like it. Yes, I believe I do. When, on returning several minutes later to my favorite spot on the sand, I meet some people shivering on the edge of the water, and debating as to whether they should go in or not, I smile at them with great superiority. Sissies, I say to myself. Now, having removed my cap, I stretch myself out in he sand, nature's softest mattress. Some people like to read on the seaside, I like to do just nothing. As the sun's rays take possession of me, and a lazy drowsiness creeps through me, I enter a region somewhere between Sleepland and Awake- land. It is the land of Day-dreams. First, I see a young woman who bears a striking resemblance to me, bowing and smiling on the stage of a famous theatre. The ovation she is receiving is deafening, the audience seems to have gone mad in order to express their appreciation. As I look more closely, I find it is really I. I have just fin- ished playing in Elizabeth the Queen at New York. But my fame does not end there. I am known all over the world, but am especially the toast of France, England, and America. King George and Queen Elizabeth ask for command performancesg the President and the First Lady invite me to the NVhite House, Hollywood begs me incessantly to sign a contractg the critics hail me as the second Sarah Bernhardt. Thus I leave the great actress at the peak of her success ,and continue my journey through the land of Day-dreams. I come upon a dilapidated build- ing in the midst of a deserted forest. As I enter it quietly, I find it to contain a large laboratory. Working diligently with a test tube and a collection of bottles is a woman. Yes ,it is I. I have devoted my life to discover a cure for tuberculosis. Against innumerable odds I struggle year after year, there, alone in the woods. At last, at a ripe old age, after many heart-breaking defeats, I find the cure. I die. happy in knowing that I have done something to lighten human suffering. I am also out of my Day-dreamland now, but before I leave, there is someone I must meet. It is Prince Charming. What girl does not dream of him! So, Prince Charming, a blend of Robert Tay- lor, Clark Gable, and Rudolph Valentino, riding his handsome white horse, comes to meet me on ,the last lap of my journey. But something is hap- pening, he is growing dimmer. Suddenly, shouts and laughter announce the arrival of my friends on the beach ,and somewhat reluctantly, I leave the land of Dreams to join them. Eos SP1noPoULos, '40, IN A CHURCH THE sound of the twilight chimes drifted along the evening breeze, as I closed the doors of the little white church behind me. Far down the aisle, on the altar, among the lilies, gleamed the wavering light of the candles, while on either side of me, the tall carved pillars of the church stood like stately seraphim, guarding a sacred trust. Above my head, their flickering candles throwing strange shadows on the white-paneled walls, two great crystal chan- deliers sparkled in the half-light. Outside, the ringing of the bells ceased, and quiet, like a benediction, lay upon all, broken only by the scuffling of my feet. As I proceeded down the aisle, the soft notes of an organ began to fill the air, berathing out their message of beauty into the night. Finally, reaching my goal, I knelt and bent my head, while the music of the organ swelled to a Crescendo, thrilling and vibrating through the church. Then, as the sound of the organ faded into the shadows, I rose and returned to the door of the church. When I turned for one last look down the aus- tere, peaceful interior of this House of God, the words above the altar, lettered in gold met my eye, Mine eyes shall behold a bright land that is very far off. PHYLLIS GiLMAN, 141. THE EXILE . How often have I heard it sadly said, Oh, but to travel, but to see the world! - And angry, lonely, passionate, have hurled Back to the speakers: Travel? I have fed On that rich cake of travel,-and for bread, Good, wholesome, homely bread of family cheers, Have wept for very longing bitter tears, And wished, in my cold exile, to be dead! I am too old, too old now to go backg But in the life I thought would be so rich In learning and contentment, all I lack Of that one gift of all things greatest, which, Since I am old, I long forg simply this, My home, my garden, and my mother's kiss! BERTHA HUMEZ, '4O. u

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Review 3 THE EDITORS EDITORIAL OON will come what all too many of us refer to as the next vacation. True, it is the next vacation, but as any child from the second grade up can tell you, it was originated for a very different purpose from simply giving us a timely holiday. As a matter of fact, Cambridge has always been most generous to us, giving us the days before and after Thanksgiving as well as the day itself, originally with the intention of allowing the teachers time to reach the back woods of Maine to visit their parents. If you are one of those who count the days before Christmas and the end of school,-and which of us is not? - you have something to be thankful for in the generosity of the vacation itself. But there are deeper things to Thanksgiving. You have doubtless heard time and again that every- one of us from the richest to the poorest has some- thing to be thankful for. As one person we know used to put it, we all can be thankful for health, for three meals a day, and for many other things so common in our lives that we seldom realize thev are there 3 there are many who do not have these things, yet I will wager that even these people- may well say they are thankful that things are no worse. Things are never so bad that they could not be a great deal worse. I suddenly realized we can be thankful that, des- pite the many wars that have broken out in various parts of the world, as yet there is no chance that the United States will have to sign another armis- tice. If you have been reading the magazines lately, you know that as soon as we are eighteen, the army has a job waiting for us if necessary, and we will be over there pumping cartridges and 'dodging bullets sooner than has hitherto been possible. I imagine there are few of us who are not thankful that that hasn't yet happened. EMBERS of the class of 1943, we give you greeting and a cordial welcome to the Cam- bridge High and Latin School. You are entering into a fine and honorable heritage but with that privilege you must assume the responsibilities also. See that you do your part toward preserving the century old traditions of your school --traditions of integrity, honest effort, and fair play. How can you do this? By being honest to yourself, you will be loyal to your school. Once more--welcome-and may you enjoy four happy and successful years. L. L. CLEVELAND. Il T'S your magazine, not ours. Doubtless more editorials and campaign speeches have been made on this subject than on any other, yet, unless human nature has suddenly changed, the effect of such appeals is seldom great. We are all inclined to say, Yes, I suppose so, but after all, I am ter- ribly busy. Besides, there are a great many people who can do much better than I. They are the ones you need. Letting the other fellow do it is cer- tainly very popular with us, and it is natural. We all have, in the moral sense, that quality which the physicist calls inertia. In other words, it takes in- finitely more pushing to get us started than it after- wards does to keep us going. However, if we real- ize that we are letting this inertia get the better of us, we have ourselves half started already. After all, we needn't be literary geniuses to be of help to the REVIEW. True, the literary department can always use more contributions, for then it is pos- sible, by wise choice, to include not only good work, but a variety of subjects as well. There are, how- ever, other departments which need a great deal of hard work and help from you, the person reading these words right now. For instance, how often have you read a really funny joke in the REVIEW? Not casting any asper- sions on former staffs, I can safely say that there have been very, few - so few, in fact, that we seriously considered omitting the jokes entirely, but that didn't seem quite right. That is just one ex- ample, and one that ought to keep a good many people busy, it isn't easy to gather together a col- lection of genuinely amusing jokes. If you don't agree with me, try it yourself -- and hand the re- sults in to us. . Don't think that you haven't the abiltiy to help usg all you need is a little ambition and the perse- verance to follow up your ideas. By the,way, there is more to that quality 'of inertia, as any physics student will tell you, once we are going steadily forward, it takes a great deal to 'stop.us.'

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'Review 5 STAINED GLASS IN the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Chartres are the most beautiful stained glass windows that I have ever seen. I have seen stained glass windows in many churches, even those in the Sainte Chapelle which are said to be some of the most beautiful. Those in Chartres appealed to me most. I re- member them especially clearly from the first time that I ever visited the cathedral. It was a hot, sunny day when I entered the quiet, cool, and peaceful semi-darkness. On the floor before me were the patches of blue light made by the sun, shining through the great windows high above. The windows in this cathedral are especially re- markable because of the predominance of blue in them. This is not a bright purple or a light blue but a deep, rich, medium color. The red stands out in sharp contrast. The scarcity of the other colors gives a very imposing effect. Yet one does not tire of the blue. The atmosphere of Notre Dame de Chartres is much more calming and restful than that of any other cathedral. I am sure that the blue windows make this difference. . The windows are made up of many little pic- tures and scenes, forming together one design. Each window is entirely different from the rest. There may be a series of large circles with separate little scenes around these. Or the design may be in the form of a number of diamonds, placed one above the other. Or one may be composed of only small, equal squares. Usually every window tells one story. Each small picture is a part not only of the design but also of the whole story. There are dozens of little figures in one window. Each is a work of art. The most beautiful window of them all is the great rose. It appears to be made up of jewels, of the most equisite coloring, especially blue, set into the deep blackness of the wall. These different parts, which are circles of different sizes, join to form one unit, a rose window, so beautiful that I cannot describe it. These windows are, justly, one of the greatest treasures of France. Eva HEGEIVIANN, '40. CHARLES RIVER LITTLE child, just like the numerous other A children in the classroom, stared gloomily through the window and then with a deep sigh turned her rebellious brown eyes back to the messy sheet of paper on which she was painfully drawing a crooked, black line. 'Twas torture to watch her work, her lips so compressed, a deep pucker on her usually smooth brow as she slowly printed the let- ters Charles River by the side of the crooked black line. Not a thought had ever come to that child that she would sometime see that line in reality and that it would not seem so crooked then. . 'Twas a cool autumn evening when I left the house and made my way briskly through the crowded, noisy streets, through the unpleasant pressing atmosphere towards the grassy banks of the Charles River. What a change, a pleasant change one can get by taking a few steps forward! There, before me, as I stood by an old green bench, I saw the shiny waters of the Charles River in all their glory, peaceful and undisturbed by the tooting horns of the motor cars and the low rumbling of the tram-car wheels, as if they wished to get out quickly from this place, grumbling in their annoy- ance for the delay. What beautiful reflections on the other side of the river where the smoky factory buildings stand! They are so different in the eve- nings with only dark distant outlines forming their structure and their windows softly lighted, like some pearls that dimly shine from under the dark folds of some dowager's velvet dress. Such nu- merous colors are reflected in the tranquil waters, mingling with the bright lights of the street lamps, black, yellow, red - and somewhere -- peeping through some dark corner is a delicate tint of blue -or dark green. The numerous lights of the cars as they speed swiftly along the busy banks opposite me seem like daring torches. As I look at their bright reflections in the Charles, it somehow carries me back into the sombre past - perhaps one thousand years before Christ first saw light on earth. Indeed, as l watched, it appeared as if a long procession was passing by, somehow the thought of Druids comes to my mind, as I see their far-off torches burning brightly on the solitude of the night. The moon seems to look upon it coldly. It stays in one place, partly silver and partly gold. I do not see its reflection in the river, nor that of the single star that twinkles merrily in the measureless sky, distant and serene like a tiny jewel on a velvet cushion. Farther off, I can see the dark outline of a man as he gazes musingly at the river. I wonder what his thoughts are . . . Is he seeing the luring beauty of the Charles or are his thoughts sad and dark?