Charlotte High School - Witan Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

Page 31 text:

THE W 1 T A N DEAD-LINE Twas the night before the dead-line, and all through the place Every in-mate was running as if in a race, For the Witan was forming, and had to be made Before the last ray of the daylight should fade. Miss Sharer was panting like a dog held in leash. She had to—the finish was just out of reach. Our Baxter was fuming o’er some poor writer's junk; Lyman was wailing that the paper would flunk; Charlton was swimming in a maze of white sheets Ol advertisers’ copy. In the various seats Were readers galore, with their blue pencil marks Running all o'er the paper. The poetry sharks Were filling the waste-baskets with poor poets’ stuff And proof readers also were getting quite rough, For printers and setters were going all wrong, Putting slugs in too short and lines in too long. Galley-proofs streamed all 'round the room. Students’ copy was flying to waste-basket doom, Yea, the Witan was making, but, oh, how so late. Yet the Witan was rushing to make dead-line date. A week now has passed, and in our old den The posters are up. But nine out of ten Must be changed all around, for the Witan will come A week from the date when it's s'pposed to be clone. John Donoghue MY PRAYER Sweet are the notes from the honey'd throats which carol at ev'ning-tide; In the purple hush, the hermit thrush has avoice which few have vied. And who but hark when they hear the lark, which is the Briton's pride? Rut the robin's song in the morning And the wren's sweet voice thru the day, The pigeon's call in the twilight— These are all for which I pray. Some may quest for the bunting's nest, for his glorious color and coat; The gold high-hole and the oriole in scarlet and marigold gloat; Tho’ most men pray for plumage gay— on burnished brilliance dote— The robin's song in the morning, And the wren's sweet voice thru the day, The pigeon’s call in the twilight— These are all for which 1 pray. 29

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THE W1TAN NORTH SEA LURE I do not long for a life of ease, With a book and an easy-chair On a well-kept lawn, with a gentle breeze Fanning my graying brown hair. I do not wish for a rich-man’s place, With its cares and troubles and bores; But I long for a ship that could set the pace Ahead of the gale that roars. Then I’d head for the north, where the sea is blue, And the ice-floes grumble anil groan, Where the albatross wheels, when the day is thru, And the chill biting ice-winds moan. For pleasure I seek, in the northern seas. Where a man is a man thru and thru, Where he’s hale and strong foi a hearty song And the blood in his veins runs true. And there I'll be gay and willing to die, When this last wish is fulfilled; And I’ll seek my rest, for I'll know that the best Has been given, when my life is stilled. Harold C. Snyder TIS SPRING Hark! the birds sing, Among the blossoms gay, Just a sweet, low hymn At the close of day. Now day is done, Thru the woodlands ring The cries of forest brothers, “ 'Tis spring, yes, ’tis spring! Nellie Weeks. 28

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T H E W I T A N RULES Aristotle, Pericles, And. old Eratosthenes; Poor Alcibiades, Unfortunate Demosthenes— It must have been very hard With such long names on your card. Must you have had one long ago, To be wise. I want to know ? Apostrophes to Jupiter, Mercury and Demiter, Odes and elegaic themes Were the ancient poets’ dreams. Must you have made them thus and so To be a poet long ago? My words are not o'er-polished art, Hut surely they cry from the heart; No coat, I know, however choice, Would change a thrush’s magic voice, Why cover up a meaning pure With mystic words and forms ob- scure ? I’M GLAD, ARE YOU? How good it seems tc think that we Have finished shoveling snow Writh coal at fifteen dollars per, Wc bid cold winter “Go!” The robins chirping in the trees, The crocus peeping through, The pussy-willows bursting out Bring cheei to me—and you. How glad we are to welcome spring The time when all feel gay; When cold hard winds nave ceased to blow And work is turned to play. Evelyn Gallery, '28. CHER1E, ADIEU “The winds of fate blow strong, Chorie, and the time is not far off.” “What mean you, my father?” Naught, let it pass.” A sudden gust of vicious wind moaned down the chimney and tore at the embers on the health. With undulating swift- ness the girl crossed the room and gazed at the red gloom-dusked sky. A Hash of jagged greenish-white tore the dead-silk canopy overhead. The booming thunder, like the roll of countless drums, swelled, cresccndoed, blared its triumphant paean of night —then all was still save the groan of the pain-wracked wind. The eyes, deep ocean-blue and slightly glazed were half-closed. A stray breath of wind played with the white mane of his hair. “The cannon, Cherie, they are come?” “No, my father, ’tis only Thor toy- ing with his hammer in the heavens.” A dreamy smile flitted and danced in and out of the seams of the gentle old face. Quietly his eyes closed and his head ceased nodding to the dance of the fire-goblins. Far off on the horizon a rent ap- peared in the purple-dark canopy and a white stream of light peered hes- itatingly forth. For a moment it wridened in piercing beauty, and the snarl of the wind changed to a low song as it bore a gently soul through the rift in the canopy to fairer lands beyond. An entrancing sweet tremulous smile played oddly about the corners of the girl’s mouth as she gazed through the window, for she had seen, and turning to the now still form, she knew. Clifford Carpenter, ’27. WINDOWS Why is it that on cold days the window nearest me is the one always raised? Whether in a street-car, at school or at home, some fresh air fiend (with two or three sweaters on) remarks, “It’s getting terribly stuffy in here,” and opens the one window in the whole room through which the wind will blow directly on me. The fiend invariably removes himself from the immediate vicinity of the gale usually affected. Since vacating for me would mean the gathering of mis- cellaneous papers, books, packages, and disentangling myself from the desk or chair, I remain, shivering and miserable. On warm days, whatever window’s I open are immediately closed, with the explanation that the draught is disturbing someope. 1 smile and suffer. Whatever the dictionaries may soy, a window is a contrivance from which to drop and break valuable articles, through which worthless ones are blown, and by which much discomfort is derived. 30