Central High School - Cog N Pen Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

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Finally the bus did come! Mollie looked at her watch. Only five minutes had elapsed! It seemed to her like five hours. She searched her bag for a token, and unconsciously she tried to stick a nickel into the slot machine. Waitsa matter, kid, in love? was the gruff question of the conductor as he winked al the people who were waiting to pay their fare. Mollie woke up from her day-dream, deposited a token, and with burning cheeks slipped into the bus. Jealousy was burning within her! Why hadn't George taken her to school? Each time she tried to make herself believe she would never have been fool enough to go anyway; deep down in her heart, how- ever, she knew she would have gone joyously. Finally the bus drew up to school. With stagger- ing steps she walked into the lockers. She was already late, and this morning she didn't care what her punish- ment would be, either. Mollie didn't give herself that last little finishing touch that morning! She didn't smile at herself in the mirror as she did every morning when she was happy—she always tried to look pretty for everybody—especially for one person. She dreaded to go into her homeroom class. George and Sally both were in it, and worse than that, she sat near them. Besides, her teacher would be more than likely to be sarcastic about her coming in late, and he would cause the class to laugh at his remarks. Worse than that? He might hint that George was the cause of her tardiness, as he sometimes did! Almost everyone knew, that, well — George and Mollie were real good friends— more than real good friends, too! Of course, she always laughed at her teacher's joke most heartily; but this morning it was different! She didn't want her teacher or anybody to say anything concerning George and herself. She just couldn't stand it today! She could just see Sally's spiteful eyes when the class would laugh! She knew she would have to go to her homeroom I wich you'd С. S. (irritated and dancing): get off my feet. S. S. (likewise) : like canal boats. G. S.: Well, must you walk the decks? I can't help it. Your feet are There was to be a long assembly that morning of all morn- class, however; there was no way out of it! ings, and the first period would not begin for a lime yet! With uncertain steps she walked to her class-room, and without looking either right or left, forced herself into it. As she entered, she caught the remark of a class- mate, George's got a new girl friend, and a lump throat. She realized her homeroom teacher was absent. That was even worse, because came to her now she might be questioned by her pals, and above everything, she did not wish to be asked anything. Hello, Mollie, came from all sides. Mollie was loved by all her friends, and this morning they realized immediately that something was very wrong. George pretended not even to see her! Mollie walked to her seat, and without looking at anyone, slumped down in it. She opened one of her books and pretended to read it. Suddenly she heard George and Sally humming “Keep Y our Sunny- side Up. She bit her lips till they were white to keep from crying. She kept up like a soldier, how- ever, till Sally's sweet rippling voice sounded, “Honey, you've got your book upside down; you know you can't very well read that way. Come on, be a good girl and let little Sally tum the book around. This was too much for Mollie! She sprang up from her seat, and with quivering lips ran into the hall! She wondered what George had done! Had she seen how George had risen and had attempted to follow her, but for Sally, she would have felt, oh, — whoops—better! But no, he didn't carc! He was like all the rest! That whole day was spent in misery! Just that morning all her teachers had decided to be more stern than usual, and, oh, well—it was just a cruel world for poor little Mollie! What did you buy? Nothing. I was looking at some dresses. . S.: You don't need any dresses. L. C.: No, of course not, but a lot of girls are wearing them. 13

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THE ANSWER Were ] to be drugged to sleep now With the wild wind whistling in my ear, And were | to dream— a drugged dream Full of the unloosened emotions of the wind, I should be in an echoing cave, calling, calling . And somewhere from its depths Would come an answering call —crying. crying As 1 would cry and call to the empty, pulsating air— Empty? Then why the echo, why this illusion Of a voice replying to the stifled question within me Loosened by a wild wind's madness? Га call again, Who is there? and “Who is there?” comes the ghostly voice . . O wild wind whistling and empty cave re-echoing With your plaintive, eerie nothingness, In the shadows of your mystery, in the brooding cadences of your voice, Sing me a melody of this vague mystery Which is yours and mine and the world's—? “And the world's? comes the ghostly chant, phantom musician Of a wild wind's madness. You are cruel, cold cave, you are harsh, wild wind Yet you haunt me . Your symphony finds my heartstrings for a violin And you play upon it with tender, drawing finger, Play, and each note, each tiny sigh played on this violin Which is my heart Draws it onward, upward, to the calm of the stars, But even to find Beauty in the eddies of a whirlpool, swiftly swirling, Rhythmically whirling in its seeping awfulness— You are cruel, echoing cave, but I love you Cruel, but I-love-you, pleads the voice, I know, I know, sweet cave,—1 know, I know, wild wind, For I have plucked a rose, a heart-red rose, And my nostrils expanded with its fragrance, I have torn this rose, this heart-bled rose And my eyes dilated with its dying. O, sweet cave, re-echoing, you are full with my full- ness, Y ou are empty with my emptiness, Y our mystery is I and I am your voice, Singing, calling, crying its ecstacy, As you, sweet cave, echo its cadences, And you, wild wind, croon me a lullaby As you whistle through the grasses, as you serenade An empty cave, re-echoing, filling, gladly burdened With laughter, young laughter, sweet laughter trium- phant! — Emma Turak. ODE TO THE GEOMETRY TEACHERS OF CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL I sit and think and painfully ponder, And then anon I start to wonder Why oh why it was meant to be ‘That Geometry is not for me. Angles, vertex, circles, all Surely plot for my downfall. I sit and puzzle as 1 write Elusive problems into the night. I've had each teacher in the school, All have agreed that I'm a fool When it comes to learning ad-verbatim ‘The rules of theorems (how I hate 'em). Occasionally I get a flash Of brilliance, but it doesn’t last; And then I see with sideward look A cipher put down in the book. Willingly would I forego, All the pleasures that I know, If only they would set me free, . From that plagued Geometry. But I will have to suffer thru it, Or by the gods. some day I'll rue it. But, oh—how plainly do I see Geometry is not for me! —Fritzie Reich.