Charlotte High School - Witan Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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T ii E W I I A N THE THINKER We have all seen pictures of that famous Greek statue of a man in deep thought; his eyes gaze fixedly on the ground; a broad hand supports a fi. n chin; head bent with the weight of a massive brow. The sculptor has rightfully called him The Thinker. Of what is he thinking? Is it of some new theory that will rival those of Aristotle ? Of a new style of archi- tecture that will make the great temples of the Acropolis seem un- couth ? Perhaps he is thinking of his past achievements, on account of which men universally acknowledge him great. His thoughts may ba centered on some lonely isle, on home and friends. He is about to die; he is thinking 01 his life oi its triumphs ant1 ne- feats, of its joys and sorrows, of its peace and love or turmoil and hate. He is an orator and statesman who would The applause of listening sen- ates command! a great public ques- tion confronts him: the invasion of the Persians, or war with Sparta, or with Macedonia. He is a philosopher; he is putting the eternal thoughts of Socrates and Plato to shame; he laughs at Zeus and Athena, scorns their tawdriness. Why wonder what this figure is thinking? His head is of solid marble! Charles Strobel, ’28. A GEOMETRIC AXIOMDENT The bootlegger had intercepted the boundary line between the areas Can. and U. S. A. with a load ot rum and other products and was constructing the locus of points equidistant from the railroad line, D. H., taking the direction of N. Y. Suddenly the road made an angle and intersected the line D. H. diagonally at a point X. A locomotive was describing a curve in the railroad line and heading for points south. The engineer was sounding the whistle for the intersec- tion, warning people who did not wish to go west.” I can make the opposite side as easy as pi, said the bootlegger, squaring his round shoulders and tak- ing a firmer grip on the direction disk of his rumbus. Rut the powers contained in the surface between his ears would not equal Vfc the sense of proportion of a sick ant of the ark. At this point his cylinders missed twice, a chord intercepted the point of a tack and the rumbus vvas met squarely by the N-gon which caused it to be transformed into a wreck tangle. Although the bootlegger was not eliminated, manipulations had to be resorted to in order to extract him from the quantity of cylinders, chords, twisted angles and segments, the sum of which equaled the remainder of the rumbus. The bootlegger extended a line” to the authorities but could not prove it to be straight because his theorems were not supplemented and did not co- incide with the truth. When his identity was established, he was transferred to a prism called S. S.. at which point he is now located. His number is 1323. “When a N-gon meets a rumbus a wreck tangle is formed.” —Q. E. D. Frank Hutchinson. THUNDER ON THE LEFT Christopher Morley Reviewed by LeFevre This is reviewed by Mildred Le- Fevre, a story in which the movement is almost entirely intellectual, rather fanciful and imaginative, but present- ing the sad truth that as we grow older and acquire sophistication and worldliness, we lose much of our sin- cere natural manner, and thus miss much in life. Some children, who realize what hypocrites their parents are, decide to spy into the grown-up world. In the meantime, they grow up and meet again. Each one has changed and be- come more or less a member of the modern grown-up world of intrigue, except Martin, who has remained the same candid personality, as in his youth. His innocent childlikeness in con- trast to the sophistication of the others results in very perplexing mental struggles. 31

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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

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I H E W I T A N MEMORY SEA They were dreams of youth and folly, They were dreams of sun and storm. They were dreams of sunlit high- ways and of skies, They were dreams of seas and sailors.. And of tall ships easin’ home, Where the trade winds moan and stars are white-bright eyes. They were dreams of drowsy ev’nings ’Neath a moon-kiss’t southern sky, With the shadows of the ser. gulls or the mast. Where the gentle breezes whisper Through the rigging near the deck, With a melancholy talc, now slow, now fast. Then came dreams of quiet comrade- ship Through watches of the night With the embers glowing in the old pipe-bowl. And the dreams of solemn stillness O’er a phosphorescent sea, As the ship would softly slowly, plunge and roll. Clifford Carpenter. ON A SUMMER S NIGHT Have you ever had a feeling of in- security. insignificance or humility, come to you on a rather pale, moon- lit night while rowing close to the shore of a wood-hilled lake? The moon now covered by billowy clouds, now clearing herself, sails on like a ship in the night; the muffled lapping and the gurgl.v rippling of the boat slowly cutting through the placid water, and the frequent dull creak and groan of oar locks are the only disturbers of the darkness. Later a light perfumed breeze springs from the pine-covered hills and caresses the water into little rippling waves. The twinkling of occasional lights is seen, then disappears, followed at intervals by others from motorists pursuing a lonely road leading close to the lake; the bonfires of cottagers leap fan- tastically away into the distance on some other side of the lake. The bark of a dog, the shrill cry of a whip-poor- will, the ominous hoot of an owl, a sudden little splash by a fish and the steady, sleep-lulling song of the crick- ets from the tall grass by the shore make the night a symphonic poem. William B. Christie, ’27. AT THE PICTURE SHOW “Well, just in time! Isn't that luck? ’ Isn’t her dress darling?—Oh, what’s he gonna do now? Say, you oughta see the darling dress I got. It’s blue trimmed with—-look at him! Why don’t he save her? Did you ever? —Well, as I was saying, it’s blue trimmed with gray. It’s the sweetest thing; only thirty dollars.” Did you go to the Lyceum last week?” No, what was it? Pat Rooney?” Yeah, and you oughta see his son Charleston! Boy! He sure takes the cake.” Here, want a piece of candy?” Yeah, thanks.” Look, Ruth, there's two people going out up in front. Let’s go up there.” Ah—peace at last. Ma,—here's two scats.” Bobby, sit down and behave like a good boy.” ‘‘What's it say, Ma?” The villain still pursues her—” Ee a good boy now and don’t ask so many questions.” Oh Ma, is he going to climb the tree?” Yes, I guess so; now keep still.” What's he gonna climb it for. Ma?” CONTENTMENT I live in a quiet suburban street which is neat and trim. We all have modest gardens filled with roses and wild grasses, trimmed and seeded. Hollyhocks blossom primly, all stand- ing in a row. At dusk when I come home, tired, after the day’s weary business, I no- tice that they are clearing the ground to build a house on the vpcant lot next door. There is peace in this wind- sheltered little street. In the evening I often see other tired business men watering the eager roots of drooping summer flowers, and the barefoot chil- dren wiggling their toes in the wet grass. The hose leaks and sputters but we do not mind things like that, for are we not leading n life of peace? Ethel Butler. 32