Charlotte High School - Witan Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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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

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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

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The WIT AX C HARLOT 'I E STEFANSSON STUPEFIES STUDENTS Vilhialmur Stefansson, the noted explorer who honored us by a visit has proved a most interesting character. His parents were bom in Iceland and he has inherited their love of the North, and, perhaps, their Swedish tenacity. Mr. Stefansson has a most delightful personality and his eyes crinkle up at the corners when he laughs. His slight accent is odd at first, bur not noticeable after a short time. The great honors showered upon him by various societies and governments have not spoiled him and he appears a simple, kindly man. Dr. Stefansson had an excellent education and a fine position on the faculty at Harvard University. He gave up his position to join the I.effingwell- Mippclsen expedition to the Arctic Ocean. He con- fided that he had had chances to go to Africa “But, and a twinkle came into his blue eyes, “I would probably be dead by now the fevers you know. When asked how he became interested in anthro- pology he replied, “A long story, I don't have time now to tell it, but perhaps some other time So that will remain a mystery to us. Mr. Stefansson, when he left, turned and waving a friendly good-bye called: “Make it up out of your head the way all good reporters do. That is what I have done' IMPRESSIONS OF JUDGE ALLEN A low murmur of disguised comment emphasized the otherwise unbroken silence, somewhat as the buzzing of the blue Hies did in that famous court room scene a long rime ago, as the distinguished Judge Florence E. Allen entered the room accom- panied by several well-known citizens of Rochester. Ambition and success seemed to emanate from her whole being, but I was attracted especially by her facial expressions. Her eyes would laugh and her mouth would laugh in a wide grin which raised the corners at least an inch above the cenrer. Then in a second the corners of her mouth would seem, by comparison, to drop an inch below the center, although her eyes were still smiling. Another change and she would be the serious judge of the court. In Judge Allen's opinion ir was highly ! cncficial to have women in community life because it aroused public feeling. However, if there were children in the home, the woman's duty was in the home. She also added that many did not realize the father's place in the home. He should have just as important a part in the home life as the mother. I n referring to women on the juries, Miss Allen said that often they were nor as moved in trials as some men. In one specific case, a juryman had wept aloud and the foreman who happened to be a woman reported the accused guilty of the charge in as composed a tone as possible. All the Judge's statements were sandwiched be- tween humorous reminiscences of her life. Altogether she was a very entertaining speaker and an inspiration to anyone. Gf.hrjng Cooper, 33 DESTRUCTION Did you ever in the forest hear his music ring His low voice sing When in the stifling still of summer day He murmured, Stay Life is too short to waste In fast and furious haste AH things are worthless but unbroken rest And peace. He whom you now bring low is mightier far Than steam and steel machines and engines arc, He is monarch here whose tufted crown Lies in its green of glory on the ground. When you were sad his friendly arms did sweep Blue shadows down, and o’er your cars did creep His muffled melodies to lull you on to sleep And case. Cut down the trees with dirt and smoke and steel I One day will see you kneel Low in fear of a dryad’s ire, In palaces of fire, Raising your pleading voice to cry Against the blind and bland gold sky For dew and wind and low melodious sigh Of trees. E. D. SOLITUDE It is before thy altars, mystically dim Fragrant with inccnsc of the full-blown flower Melodious with the reverent breathing hvmn Ripe with the still perfection of the hour. Men’s souls arise in faint and smokc-likc prayer Furile and fruitless on the fragrant air. How can man be so mad and deaf and blind Confident in the strange delirium of his brain. Stumbling his way, perceiving in his mint! Naught but himself, his folly and his pain While, in thy perfection, e’en his wrath and storm Partake a lonelier and a purer form ? Here is all beauty. Here all words and music arc But the faint murmur of a far-off brook Alien as the image of a star Painful as the bird his song forsook. I shall go back to men’s cordiality Only to return, more eagerly, to thee! ’3 |S