Central Commercial High School - Hour Glass Yearbook (New York, NY)

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It Could Happen to You Four walls enclose me and torment me. I am trapped in a hot dry prison. The air is thick and stale. I am weary. Physically and mentally, I am exhausted. My lids have become heavy, but I fight sleep. I must stay awake and on guard. I try desperately to think of the future, but this picture soon blurs, and the present reappears once more. IA7hat am I doing here? W'hat strange fate leads me to this? Looking back, I realize, were it not for my job, all this would not be happening now. I look at the door in front of me and silently hope it will not open. If I cannot get outg then let the mob outside be unable to get in. These words are foolish. I hold my breath as the door opposite me opens. The gang rush in and soon I am encircled. For what seems like eternity, I am pushed and shoved, jabbed and poked. When I am about to sink into oblivion, with all thoughts of escape gone, the door once more opens. I am half dragged, half pushed from my surroundings. The climb up the stairs exhausts me, but I dare not stop. Through some miracle I master the stairs, and run to the street' beyond. The air is fresh and cool. The street is clean, and the store windows I face are decorated beautifully. The houses of various sizes and shapes, at this moment, are the loveliest possible sight. It's evening, I'm free of the subway turmoil, and I am home at last. Audrey Goodman Who is Sylvia? I often wonder about her. She is quite pretty, with wavy brown hair and deep green eyes. Her features are pleasingly fashioned and her face always wears a sweet expression. Her clothes are perfect, dainty, frilly blouses, tailored suits, fur coats, and a fabulous collection of shoes. She is very petite, and resembles a doll that has suddenly come to life. I have seen her every day for the past year. Our paths seem to cross at the same place-the drug store which I pass on my way to school in one direction, and which she passes on her way to work in the other. When I think of her, I call her Sylvia, for the name seems to suit her. She is always alone, and she invariably carries a copy of one of the latest books. While I do not really know her or anything about her, save what I have mentioned, I have often imagined a life for her. Perhaps she is a model working long hours before the Hoodlights and gracing the pages of the smart- est fashion magazines. Maybe she is an actress famous on Broadway and seen among the cosmopolitan crowd of theatre goers and performers. It may be that she is none of these. She could be a woman reporter, a secretary, a nurse, or a teacher. As Shakespeare put it -Who Is Sylvia. Probably I shall never know. Sheila Friedman

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'The Field in the Sunset I'm looking at a sunset. It's one of those glorious sights we get treated to now and then by Mother Nature. This is a sunset with heavy black clouds, with a brilliant crimson filtered through. It reminds me of a field, and the black soil of this field is plowed with blood. Perhaps the farmer is humanity. His job is to plow this bloody battle- ground to a place to grow peace. Xvhat if a farmer could grow crops for peace? What crops would he have to grow? The fruit of knowledge that teaches people that force is not the instrument of democracy. But then, of course, all must eat of the vital herb that will give men an unerring con- viction that it is only through democratic means that men will lind their happiness. There must bein this garden a vegetable that will cause each man to hate mass murder, and to love all men, and regard their misfortunes as his own, because he is a fellow human. But the roots, in order to grow to a plant of health and beauty, must be truth and justice. These roots will go deep into the moist soil, soil moist with the blood of soldiers who were commonplace men, perhaps some unknown geniuses, who fought, not so much for ideals but for self preservation. To these men who wanted food, shelter, friends, and families, with the assurance that their families could enjoy the same in their life time, this garden of peace shall be dedicated. Mildred Heller What Freedom to M e Freedom is a liVIN'1'ER'S glow, VVhite and clear, like the snow. Freedom is the SPRINGS starlight, Glowing with the gleam of right. Freedom is the SUMMERYS' sim, Shining life lo everyone. F reedom. is an A U TUJWN 'S breeze, Blowing lrullz llzrouglz centuries. Barlmrrz Eslell Curtis 27

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The Secretary HER DUTIES: 1 2 . Typewrites to a rapid heart beat at sight of handsome male. . Files for safekeeping all eligible bachelors. 3. Cuts Stencils of dream house for two. 4. Carbon Copies glamorous movie stars. 5. S peaks In tell igen tly when asking for a raise. 6. Nlimeographs anger sparks when refused. 7. Calculates on Monday how to spend Friday's pay check. 8. Duplicates Orclev' for new eraser each Week. 9 10 . Renews Orders for dreamy dates. . Rejects Orders when male date is defective. Bernice Da Silva