Charlotte High School - Witan Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

Page 21 text:

H SCHOOI. The WIT AN H i a PEACE 1 he nurse slowly drew the shade, softening the glare of the sunlight to a pleasant glow. She quietly rearranged the flowers, medicines, and linens on the small bedside table. Her patient glanced at her furtively and breathed a short sigh. Finally she looked about the room in silent self-approval and then left, closing rhe door quietly behind her. The room was very still. A vagrant fly buzzed about near rhe shade and sought the source of light. Another insect crawled about below rhe flowers. The breath of the sick man pulsed against rhe stillness. He opened and closed his fired eyes. watch ricked incessantly from rhe bureau-top. A faint wind stirred the curtain and then rhe shade. The sound of the breathing was drowned by the ticking of the watch. A peral fell from the flowers, wafted to the floor on the still air. The fly crept up the quilt and on to rhe sleeper’s face. The watch stopped. I he fly lay still on the forehead. I he breathing was still drowned for the breather, -----tired of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers, And everything but sleep, lay breathless. RESPITE The sun sinks slowly, gloriously down to the earth’s horizon, pauses, when halt concealed, to open her fan of «olden light and spread it over the West. The birds, at rhis dismal signal, soften rheir songs but sing even more sweetly than before. Frogs, from the broad, level swamp, send up rheir singled calls to dominate the quiet evening atmos- phere. Small butterflies and insects leave the flowers and crass to silhouette themselves against the per- fectly graduated tint of amber that expires from r e sunken sun like some divine perfume and fad . upward into rhe heavenly blue, rhe debate blue of dcpthless air. From somewhere out of sight rhe regular, quier dip of an oar is heard. More of nature comes to the aid of irs own dominance as a lonely cricket causes a solo to pierce rhe stilled air, and rhe sound of the wings of intermittent June bugs vibrates thru rhe quietude. Then in rhe Fast a round orange moon rises from behind a hill of droop- ing pines and frames itself in their topmost branches. Another cricket’s song echoes in the distance, a bird calls a last low salutation across the swamp. The bugs no longer stir. Dew falls; stars appear slowly, one by one; and all is hushed, hushed. Do not stir now. Do not shatter rhis dream. Breathe softly. Warm the earth with the soft friction of vour heartbeat. Lie still. Sleep. ILK I). A LIFELESS SPOT I seemed to he in a different world, one of pre- historic surroundings. Decayed trees, black with age, and only their largest branches hanging, jutted from the unruffled water. Stumps, rotted, perhaps, b centuries of soaking, appeared like ghosts in a long-dead world. Here and there pond lilies or clumps of slimy moss floated on rhe stagnant water. Then an occasional Blue Heron, a ghost in itself, would flap its lazy wings skyward. On either side lay rock-like hills with no trace of life, barren, and laid waste by tire. Even rhe clouds above seemed to cease their drifting. All was lifeless. I w as in rhe midst of a Canadian swamp. II arold Smith, '32 JUST IMAGINE Latin is my greatest joy. Without Latin I should grow despondent and moody. If my Larin were taken from me, I would, in my dreams, see Caesar, Cicero, and Archias being foully murdered by Alge- bra fans. Poor Caesar would be thrown from a great height so that his fiendish assassinatorscould devolve the speed of a falling body so weighted down by ponderous affairs of state.

Page 20 text:

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

Page 22 text:

CHARLOTTE The WIT AN And meanwhile poor Cicero has been entombed in the White House so that admiring history students can more easily visit- his grave. Mr. and Mrs. Hoover arc glad to be able to give something in behalf of the memory of a great man. And poor Archias! I le has been elected a citizen of Mars when he wants to reside in Jupiter. What a fate for poor, poetical Archias, ami Cicero, being entombed in the White House, is unable to sway the multitudes with his oratorical genuis. Poor Archias is doomed to an unhappy life. In Mars all the crea- tures arc mathematically inclined. They do nothing hut dig dirches at right angles and fly airplanes in straight lines. The inhabitants care not a fig for music, literature or poetry. And, since machines don’t cat, they have no figs to care with. There arc my three great historical heroes, con- signed to miserable fates. Vaguely to my cars comes a familiar voice: “And if some people would stay awake and pay attention in Latin class, perhaps they would get a more agreeable mark.” And I find that I have been sleeping in Latin Class! THK BUGLER The evening was cool, the smell of new cut hay hung lightly on the air, and the brilliant stars of the Milky way shone coldly on the small shelter halves of the overnight camp. Just at the brief space of time between twilight and night, there came the sound of a bugle, clear and sweet, and looking out of the back of the tent I saw the silhouette of the bugler against the cold, dark blue sky, as morionless as a rock, sounding, “Call to Quarters,” and to the rear of him, lofty maples swung their gigantic, arm-like branches slowly in the breeze. A little later I watched the same scene when he sounded Taps”, and the low buzz of the camp gradually grew silent while far away a lonely dog howled long and mournfully. Then the long-rc- membered scene was swiftly closed bv slumber. I Iarrv Grf.fr, ’32 SCRAM BOLA To bear or sec Scrambola anyone would rhink her useful days were over; that is unless be were ac- quainted with Scrambola. Despite its battered fenders and squeaky body, and rhe sad loss of its top during its younger days, Scrambola could still stand the wear and tear of the humpy detour from Charlotte ro Stone Road. It’s true one could never tell just when the old thing would, in a spiteful mood, refuse to run, or just when one of the tires would decide to blow out, but then a little tinkering will soon get it going again. It seems a miracle that Scrambola even runs at all; but then who ever heard of a model T stopping for good ? Margaret Gof.li.fr, ’33 ANNE HATHAWAYS GARDEN English gardens are said to be the most pictur esque and the loveliest in the world; and one of the quaintest and truest to English traditions is the garden of Anne Hathaway. The charming thatched cottage wirh its gabled windows and diamond panes of glass forms a perfect setting for one of the prettiest and most talked-of gardens in the world. The English cottage and its garden still stand, as in the days of Anne Hathaway, and Will Shakespeare. In 1910 when rhe last descendant of the Hathaway family died in the little cottage, it was purchased by the government. Both the cottage and the garden are in rhe same condition as they were in Anne Hathaway’s time. The quaint little gate still swings inward, and a flagged walk leads to the door. The walk is bordered with rows of nodding hollyhocks, and beyond is the garden itself full of fragrant and bright flowers. Anne’s garden was not only ornamental, hut it was the test of a good homemaker; for here she grew food for the tabic, medicine for times of sickness, and materials for perfume and sweet-meats. Close by rhe kitchen door is the salad-bed, and in another are the strewing herbs, formerly used for strewing church floors. Mint grown here in abundance was also used in churches. The flowers used for garnishing were nasturtiums, violets, marigolds, roses, and blue star- shaped flowers. Parsley, rosemary, and sage also grew here anti horchound used in making cough sirups and tansy for cakes and puddings at Easter- time. Most delicious confections were made from the roses. Candied rose-petals ami rose water we still enjoy, lmt the rose syrup, conserve, and vinegar of Anne I lathawav's tiny arc now only a tale that is told. So the influence of this quiet, little English garden, its beauty, perfume and utility have reached around the world, thanks to the magic of Will Shakespeare's pen. Behind him stands the woman who made, tended, and loved that garden until he came to love it, and wove it into his immortal plays for countless generations to enjoy. Etta Louise Rvast, 33 A TRAVEL PICTURE As I was coming home from Syracuse on the train, a picture Hashed by my line of vision which I can srill see in my mind. At the particular spot where I saw this picture, the railing ran along one side of the Barge Canal, while 20