Charlotte High School - Witan Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

Page 18 text:

The WIT AN CHARLOTTE Vj d V InV rr Literary Department ? 5W ?» A BEYOND THE FLOWERS The sky was an imperturbable ocean ofdepthless blue; and as the crimson sun sank very slowly to the horizon it seemed to draw up, in the cast, a little silver wisp of a moon. A few clouds were suspended peacefully in the west. Birds; the thrush and the lark, flitted over the fields, just clearing the tops of the grass and grain. A brown country road wound up the hills and down. And Old Tom trudged down into a valley, walked slowly toward the old house that was his home. Tom was short and ruggedly built, his skin darkened by rhe sun and the wind and the rain. His clothes, as his body, were rugged, old, and worn. He seemed tired; his feet dragged a little; but there was a hopeful and an expectant gleam discernible in his dark eyes. He had almost reached his house now. It was very small, built of large, Hat pieces of stone and roofed with their pieces of slare. The windows were small and curtained with scant draperies of coarse cloth. And the house was situated in the center of a half acre of carefully kept land. The yard in front was merely a smooth, very green lawn; hut in back many beds of blossoming flowers occupied the pre- cious space. There were long beds of roses and Straw flowers and hardy perennial plants. A single glance furnished assurance that it was the product of a careful and a skilled workman, and above all, a lover of flowers. 'Phis was Tom's garden; this was the cause of the hopeful gleam that escaped from beneath rhe shaggy brows of his large eyes; this was what Tom worked all day for; this was why he labor- ed in a neighbor’s field day in and day out. He was paying now the last fraction of the mortgage on that little plot of land; it would soon be his, all his own! His wife stood in the doorway as he came into the yard. She was neither short nor rugged; she was thinner than Tom and seemed to he not quite well. Her face wore an expression of fatigue, an expres- sion of endurance, endurance of a hopeless pain. Her hair was grey and long and a few strands vagrantly blew before her worn brow and her tired eyes. But Tom was not thinking of Hilda as he came up the door-path; he was thinking of his flowers, his garden, and of the short month before he would have it all paid for. How he cherished that garden, those flowers, those perfect flowers! How he admired the absolute perfection of each of his marigolds! Sixty- two years had taught him the supremacy of nature, had taught him to find an everlasting joy in the admiration of its beauty. Those flowers and the trees and rhe grass represented to him a God, a God whom he had heard little of, a God whom he could not imagine, but a God who was sufficient for Old Tom in the mere evidence a rose’s loveliness portrayed. No, he was not thinking of Hilda, or his supper, or his own weariness; he was thinking of his flowers. As he passed through the doorway he merely brushed by her, nor even noticing her presence. And after he had passed, his wife drooped her head a little lower and softly sighed. The supper was not ready and so Tom paused in the house merely long enough to wash rhe dust of the fields from his hands and face and then passed out again, this time into the back yard. He grasped his hoe, which was leaning against rhe wall of rhe house, and went to work in the garden. The profuse blossoming of his many colored flowers made him very happy and he whistled lightly as he hoed about the roots of the plants. This was his conception of a model occupation, this was the most pleasant thing a man could do. Such beauty, such colorful loveliness. And then a soft, saddened voice called him to supper. He did not heed the summons immediately; hut worked on until he had weeded out a little colony of plants and then he went into the house, washed again, and sat down at the small kitchen table. Hilda placed rhe victuals in front of him and finally sat down opposite him. The meal was a silent one. Old Tom ate hurriedly and spoke hardly a word. I lis wife ate very little and looked almost constantly at her husband. At the end of the meal he jumped up, gave a terse grunt of satisfaction, and darted immediately our of the door, determined to take full advantage of the scant half hour that remained before darkness. This he did, working steadily and diligently and when the darkness finally did arrive he put away his hoc reluctantly and before going indoors stood regarding with pride the beauty which t6

Page 17 text:

HIGH SCHOOL The VVITAN tf H ' ¥ Class Will VVc, the exceptional class of January 1932 of Charlotte High School, Rochester, County of Mon roe. Stare of New York being of nervous, flighty, uncontrollable nature yet slightly intelligent and possessing some ability do, hereby, declare and print this our Will and Testament. I. We bequeath to Walter Smith a new list of girls' addresses and telephone numbers in case he runs out. II. We leave these three candidates Gertrude Rappold, Gertrude Wolff and Ruth Murphy as possible secretaries for Miss Sharer. III. We leave Mr. West time to eat his lunch at least once a week without interruption or delay. IN'. We leave in the new school a smell proof building so that the occupants of the school will not have to suffer when cats with white stripes come around. V. We are going to take Walter Gunklcr's persistence (particularly, in asking girls to dance) with us; we may need it at a future date. VI. We leave Gertrude Rappold a new manager of the Book Exchange in place of our dearly loved Wilbert VII. We regret taking the biggest share of the athletic teams with us but we leave Everett Lockner, Billy Petroske, and Walter Fox as candidates for future teams. VIII. Wc bequeath to Mr. True a mail box to put outside his door to save rhe girls, bringing the slips around, the embarrassment of going into the boys' study hall. IX. Wc leave to the next candy committee a large supply of soft candy for Mr. Lacy so that he can keep the fillings in his teeth. X. We bequeath to the future Handbook Com- mittee Saturday mornings for work; more can be accomplished. XI. We bequeath a glass case for the candy so that Benny the prize candy feeler can lose the habit we’re afraid he might make a mistake and embarrass himself in an uptown store. XII. Personal Requests: 1. To Mr. Enright, a throne; it can be used to good advantage in girls’ study hall. 2. To Hermeana Prvsock, Vi Rentsch ler’s style. 3. To Grace Eve, Jean Estes’ singing voice. 4. To Rudy Wendt, l.ois Marsh's burden of playing in assembly. c. To Dean Lawson, Pom Cass's special knack of making announcements. 6. To Arol Weiser, Jimmie Smith's ath- letic ability. 7. To Kenneth Mersey, Cam, Critten- den’s boldness. X. Art Gordon's grin to Frank Polka. 9. We leave rhe school the much antici- pated and long expected handbook. XIII. Lastly we appoint the class of June 1932 executors of this will. Should it prove too much for them we suggest the faculty as assistant executors. Clast oj January 1932 Gladys M. Grotzincer Class Testator Witnesses: President, Percy Andrews Secretary, Ruth Punnetr '5

Page 19 text:

HIGH SCHOOL The WIT AN was the product of his work and God s. Long minutes he stood there, thinking, admiring, loving. Inside the house he took off his shoes, put on a comfortable pair of slippers, dropped into the one easy chair of the household anil read for an hour from a periodical of ancienr date. Meanwhile Hilda sat near him and silently crocheted; she did not move except for the mechanical performance of her thin hands. And thus the evening passed. Sometimes she asked a simple question concerning his work and he invariably answered with a short “yes” or no or a nod of the head. Hilda was of no bother to him; she occupied none of his thoughts; he hardly knew she existed. His was a world of flowers and plants. And that was all that mattered to him—the flowers, their beauty, their superb loveliness, that was his world. And he went to bed thinking still of his flowers, quite oblivious of rhe process of undressing. He was tired and he went to sleep at once and slept soundly. But the next morning, an hour before dawn, he awoke; he seemed cold and he sat up to find that the room was chilly. So he got up and looked at the stove; the fire was very low, almost out. He replen- ished it and caused it to burn energetically. Then he went hack into rhe bedroom; bur before getting into bed he happened to glance at his wife. She was still and very pale. He looked closer and could dis- cern no breathing, lie felt of her skin and found it cold. He placed his ear above her heart and heard no hearing. She was dead. Neither Hilda nor Tom had any living relatives and they had very little money. So there was no funeral service nor any waiting. Tom buried her a few hours later in a (h x he fashioned from crude boards; he buried her in the yard, behind the flower beds. And after he had thrown the last spadeful of dirt into the newly made grave he walked slowly, with bowed head and shuffling feet, hack into the house. There he gathered up a few morsels of food and put them into a tin lunch pail. Then he returned to the yard. He now looked at the flowers, which swayed gently in the slight breeze and glowed in the bright morning sun, with contempt, even with hatred. Had he not ?elt so morose and so sick at heart, he would have trampled on everyone of them, then and there. But he did not feel like moving; he stared, with eyes far too sad for tears, ar the grave beyond the flowers. Where the evening before there was God he found nothing but a plot of grass beyond the flowers, he saw now the picture of a tired, beautiful face, a tender face, ever seeking compassion, a face more beautiful than a rose or a lily. Finally Old Tom did move. He walked very slowly to the road and began to climb the brown riblion that lead, this morning, only uphill, up a hill too steep for tired feet and a heart that was aching to give compassion hut could not. II. Ray Dudley TEAM WORK A gentle wind wafted big white snow flakes onto the small upturned nose of Jean Crampton. She held her head a tiny hit higher as she passed through the gate, into her yard. Running up the steps she was soon heard slamming the door behind her. Afrer throwing her sweater on a near-by chair, and her hat and gloves on the table, she curled up in the big Morris chair before the roaring fire. I ler broad, high forehead was furrowed in thought. She’d show those girls they'd lose the basket-ball game without the best center on the Sophomore team. They couldn't win without her. Thegamew'as Saturday, Sophs, w. Juniors. They had told her her passes wouldn’t work, they had made fun of her. Now she would watch the game, her black eyes snapped and she stared at the fire. Saturday dawned clear and cold. The snow was piled high on each side of the walk as Jean walked slowly our into the srreer. She arrived at the school early. There were a few people scattered about the balcony. She selected a seat near the front and waited. The minutes passed quickly and the balcony was filled. This was a big game for the school as each team had excellent players and this was the final game to decide the winner of the tournament. 'I‘he hand was playing and the two teams marched solemnly out onto the floor. The whistle blew, the game started; The substitute for center on the Sophomore team was a girl called Lei a. Jean knew her. She was considered clumsy, always fumbling the ball. The score stood six to nothing at the end of the first half. The game started again. Jean watched Leila’s long arms shoot up lor the ball. The other girl on the Junior team had seen the pass. Her foot went out Leila fell -. Five minutes later a girl was pulling Jean's sleeve, We’ve got to have you, ex- plain later ! ! she cried. Jean forgot she wasn't going to play, she forgot the girls hail made tun of her, she forgot everything except that her team was losing the game. She didn't hesitate. After five anxious minutes for the audience, Jean Crampton ran our onto the floor to take her place. The whistle Mew sharply, the game was in action. Jean was using her pass work, the girls responded. One basket two baskets the game was tied and one quarter more to play. Jean’s expert passwork made a third basket just a minute before the whistle blew for the end of the game. Jean was breathless and happy w hen the girls came to carry her triumphantly around the hall as their heroine. She knew now that the girls understood. Janet Ferguson, ‘34 17