Catholic High School For Girls - Silver Sands Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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I 'm The Youngest H, HOW painful those words can be to you if you are that unfor- tunate, insignificant, person usually called the youngest , At the table, for instance, you wait patiently for an opening, only to be nipped right in the bud of your opening sentence. When finally, there is an opening, fwhich is probably due at the moment to the fact that everyone's mouth is occupied with foodj you uncover that bolt of atomic information, which you thought would result in an explosion if you had been forced to keep it in any longer. As you sit there seething, for everyone has given just the cus- tomary nod, you dream up fantastic situations, every one of which por- trays your family hanging on your every word. Your reverie is usually encroached upon by Mother who would like to know of what you're dreaming, as your fork as yet has not reached your mouth. Then, the fateful night arrives- By Joan Herron, '49 all eyes are turned to you. To what do you owe this unexpected attention? Oh, of course, something has been done detrimental to family rules. Did you do it? Certainly! Who else but you could be capable of such imbecil- ity? Who else but you would forget to lock the front door, hang the tele- phone receiver up, or turn the oven off, and so on through a succession of your Cto themj insuiferable habits? After murmuring your apologies to each accuser-rather abuser, you sit there and wait for the next time that your family will know that you too are a member of the household. At the same time, you hope that when they do, it will not be the result of some misdemeanor on your part. Well, grin and bear it. Some day when your brothers' and sisters' hair is beginning to look as if they had just brushed against one of the blackboards at Hallahan, you can remind them, Pm the youngest . 'lr 'A' ul' It's fun! To be a musician And live in music land, To follow all the instruments, The wave of our maestro's hand. It's fun! To sit and practice On violin, so sweet, Especially when you overcome That amateurish squeak. BARBARA GLENNON, '51

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Tn: 1949 Srnvnn Sanus By Agnes Kaplnka, '49 Illustrated by Honore Jonson, '50 :D ICK TRACY discovered Gravel Gertiel Knobby Walsh discov- 'ered Joe Palookal Yet these discover- ies are nothing compared to the discovery I have recently made. I have been successful in discovering why students fail in a test even after they've studied all night. How did I come upon this important discov- ery? If you promise not to divulge the secret I'll tell you. It was a memorable day that I walked down the school corridor checking over my information for the literature test which I had to take. Shakespeare's dates are 1564 to 1616. Byron wrote Hours of Idlene.rs. My steps were conident as I en- tered room 3 because all the necessary facts were safely filed in my memory. Seated in my desk, my pen filled, I received the test paper. I examined it and with a smile I started. I knew all the answers. The first question was, What are Shakespeare's dates P Immediately I started to write 1564 to 1616. Suddenly a tiny voice said, Oh, no, they aren't. Those are the dates of the Renaissance. Oh, yes, they are, countered another tiny voice. Oh no, they aren't - Oh yes, they are, was all I heard. My smug complacency was disturbed. All the facts were beginning to be- come jumbled. Was I just imagining those voices? Looking around I saw a group of tiny elves scattered over my desk. One bold rascal was even perched on the top of my pen. Another mischiev- ous imp was swinging back and forth on a lock of my hair. Still others re- clined on my shoulder. Now what was that answer ? I was in doubt! Oh, well, I thought, I'll go on to the next question. Who wrote Hour: of Idleness! Aha. I began to gloat. At least there's no doubt about this. The answer is Byron. In my best penmanship I started to write Byron when the elf perched atop my pen dis- agreed so vehemently that a blot of ink suddenly appeared on my paper. Be- fore I could stop them, two of the elves seized my eraser and dexterously commenced to rub' until they had worn a hole in the paper. QAll my teachers please note. You see it isn't through carelessness that those ink spots and holes appear on my papers. All the fault lies with those trouble- some elves.j While all this was going on, the time allotted for the test was slowly diminishing. With one last effort I quickly wrote down the answers I still knew. But, alas and slack, the number was small, and those that I did know caused such discord among the elves Continued on Page 16

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THERE WILL BE TIME . . IT WAS night. Down by the wharf the rain beat relentlessly on the boat anchored at its mooring. She stood on the deck bundled in a man- nish raincoat, her face wet and shin- ing. Chris tried to remember. Once they had been a part of this lake-she and Bob-a part of its glistening waters. Chris 'could still see him just as she had always remembered him on the lake-she pictured his skill in rowing, that perfect diving form, that gorgeous tan. How she had admired him! She became his favorite satel- lite. He taught her to swim, and row, and she, in return, often read to him as they basked in the sun on the yvhite pebble beach. He went away that fall to college. Chris missed him, but always 'she thought of his winter vacation. She had a surprise for him-she could ice skate. Chris had taught herself dusky afternoonson the frozen lake. Now, finally, Bob was home. Bob, come down to our lake and fshe grew prouder at the wordsj skate with me. The twinkle in his brown eyes, his By Marion J. Morris, '49 delight at her efforts was reward enough. His encouraging words- how she cherished them now-his last gift. Ice on the far side was thin, the water, deep. No, Bob, look out -her warning came too late. Chris -she could still hear his help- less cry as he disappeared. The ice pinned him beneath its cold spread. He hadn't even a chance. Chris leaned over the side rail now gazing far down to penetrate the greedy, turbulent water. She had to leave. The car was waiting to take her home-to the new house away from here. She lingered a moment and then started the long climb up the sloping street. Someday she would come back. Chris and the lake could be friends again. She paused halfway up the steep incline and turned. One day she would no longer see Bob's face in every wave. Chris could smile and no tears would come rushing to her eyes. Till then-she hurried away into the rain and the night. Someday she would forgive the waters for capturing him-her Bob, her dearest brother.