Charlotte High School - Witan Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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

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 23 text:

HIGH SCHOOL The W I T A NT a concrete road wound its way along the other side. The train was speeding steadily homeward when there appeared on the canal a tug towing several barges, an automobile passed over the road, and an airplane zoomed overhead. Thus for a brief moment, four different means of transportation and com- munication presented themselves. The slow, puffing barge, the smoothly riding auto, rolling along the winding road, the screeching train, speeding relent- lessly down the straight track, and the zooming airplane, speeding ar a terrific speed through the unobstructed air above, showed the wonderful progress man has made in the development of transportation. This picture seemed to me rather unusual, as four such widely different means of travel are seldom seen in operation ar one rime. P. Andrews, ’ji CHRISTMAS MF.MORIES The kettle singing on the hob, the hot, bright fire, the soft, crunching sound of feet on the snow outside, the gay expectancy of the morrow, all tend to make this Christmas F.ve a merry one. Cheeses, pics, cakes, nuts, and beverages stand on the table ready for the feast to come. The deep easy chairs drawn invitingly close to the fire will soon be filled with happy occupants. There is but one flaw :n the whole of this content- ment; I am not to be permitted to stay for the fun. Even now mother has come in and bundled me up and pur me off to bed. As I lie awake I hear noises below. People are laughing and the constant pop of corks denotes that the party has begun. How to get downstairs! I hear the carollcrs singing below, who go from house to house singing about the new born Babe, but not a word about Santa Claus (or Daddy Christmas as he was known to me then). Where is the jolly old man? I go over to the fireplace and look up rhe chimney. A fire is not to be built in the grate tonight; Santa’s whiskers might catch fire. I look on the mantel piece to see if mother has pur rhe candy there which I am to get if I behave myself well until morning. I ger an idea ’ Going back to my bed I begin to cry very loud, in order to make myself heard above the others. After almost crying myself hoarse, mother comes running up the stairs and I tell her that I can sec bogey men on rhe wall. Mother’s powers of soorhing me seem to be a little lacking tonight, so I gain my end and I am carried down stairs. The living room which was so green, cozy, ami quiet is now filled with laughing people, good things to cat, and Christmas hymns are being played by the guests who are gifted with the talent to play and sing. Bur where is Santa Claus? After parraking of some of the sweets handed to me, I cuddle up in a very large green chair and fall asleep. Annie Rawlinson, '.»4 THE HOl'SF. I INHERITED 'The wind blew fiercely. Ir was raining cats and dogs. I hastened up the steps slipping about a million times in the pitch black of the night because of my rubber soles. After fumbling around under the mar about an hour I finally found the key to the front door. I turned it in the lock with a click and pushed the tloor open Heavers, how musty ir smelled in there. I hoped that I’d find a candle or an electric light switch, but after feeling over the walls and lighting seventy-five matches, I decided that no such thing existed. The floor creaked terribly and I nearly jumped out of my shoes as the lightning hit a tree near by with a crack. Gosh, why hail I gone to the country in such a dilapidated affair as my old tin-lizzie. 1 knew it would hreak down some day, bur I hadn’t expected it to fall completely to pieces so soon. My thoughts wandered for a second, but after knocking my head on a mantle I came back with a start. I thought I’d remembered the house quite well. Ir seems I hadn’t. My Unde had dial a year ago and left me this old place and this was the first time in years rhnr I had seen ir (rather felr ir.) Suddenly I felt myself shoot into space. ()h-h-h, had I stepped into an elevator shaft? There had been one I remembered. Well, if I had, I had come to the bottom, hut no, it couldn’t he unless it was a new kind of one. I picked myself up, a hit stiffly to he sure, and stood upon rhe soft pile of clothes I hail landed upon, trying to accustom myself to the darkness. Jumping off on to a cement floor I saw stairs winding upward. Being desperate hv now, I decided to follow them whatever the cost. I followed those steps that wound around in circles until I was ready to drop. Finally I reached a wiggly landing, off from which was a corridor. A cobweb brushed my face. Glorv, if there was a spider at the end! But I had worse things to worry about; a bat swooped down and seemed to take a chunk out of my arm. I screeched and ran pell-mell into the blackness until I was winded. Gee whiz, what would happen next? I sprawled full length over a pail of stagnant water spilling it over my legs. Picking myself up I began to cry like a baby. Then with .1 sol I looked into the distance and saw a light1 ! You can’t know how I felt. I charged like .« hull 21