Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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T HE R E F L E ( T O R C L I F T O N II I G H 8 C H O O L FEBRUARY 1927 A DREAM REALIZED At the corner of the flat looking grey build- ing he stopped and lit a cigarette. Above the faint glow of the match his face showed young, clear, and unmistakably American. Suddenly he turned his head and peered into the dense blackness of the open doorway. Sure- ly he was not mistaken! That was—that must be—the sound of a violin. Hut from a hallway like this—could it be possible? Straightening his rookie hat and bracing those fine young American shoulders, lie enter- ed the gloomy hallway. lie could still faintly discern the sound of the beloved instrument. But how to get to it? Where did this hallway lead to? These French places were so deceiving you never could tell where they might get you. With these meditations he walked about twen- ty yards, and suddenly felt, rather than saw, a slight turn in his path. Determined to trace the music he followed the turn, and began guiding himself by the touch of the wall. Several times he was on the point of turning back, but his instinct of daring was so great, and his love for the uniform he was wearing so intense, that he was commanded to go on. Again he turned, and this time he very near- ly stumbled when he came in contact with an old wooden box, at least he judged it to be a box. For an instant it seemed almost as if the music had stopped. Perhaps the noise of the box falling or the muttered “Darn,” disturbed the musician. He knew now that he must be quite near it. Some twenty yards ahead of him he could see a diagonal ray of light, the crack of an open door, no doubt. He walked the few remaining steps in a fever of intense excitement. Now that he was here, what would he find? There was no earthly rea- son why he should feel as he did. Anyone might live in a cellar—and play a violin—surely there was nothing especially singular about that. Hut why the uncanny feeling? The surroundings— this cold, damp cellar—the moaning strains from the violin—all added a sense of unreality. Reaching the tiny shaft of light, he made out an old wooden door hanging by one rusty hinge. He quietly pulled the door toward him and stood very, very still. Standing in the center of the room, with the ghostly glare of a gas jet above him, was an old man. His fine chin rested on the violin. His hair hung long and white to his shoulders. His eyes were closed, and the whole expression of his face was decidedly strange and sad. It seemed almost as if the god of sleep had come to him as he stood there with the violin. His face showed shadows and fine lines, its whiteness in- tensified by the long black coat and the deep shadows of the room. As one awakened suddenly, he opened his eyes and gazed long and steadily at the visitor. For a moment the soldier knew nothing but those eves large, deep, and filled with dreams, —sad, very sad dreams, it seemed—then in- stantly the expression changed and the strong stare of the blind met his gaze. The musician put out his arm and muttered something in French, which his visitor did not understand. The musician waited a few min- utes, and the silence seemed to imply that the presence of a visitor had been a mere fancy. PAGE FIVE

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THE REF LECTO R CLIFTON H I G H S C H () () L F E B R U A R Y 9 2 7 WHO IS IT? Whether it rains or whether it shines, he is always there. Where? Who? Well. I won’t say who just now, hut I’ll let you guess. He is in front of the building (C. II. S.) during school hours, he’s with the fellows who practice on the field, and he's at all the games. At times he is kicked and chased away. Once in a while he en- ters the school and raises a rumpus, but is soon shown out. At other times he chases the players during the games and creates a howling dis- turbance. But, what would happen if we came to school some morning and failed to see him? I leave it for you to say. Now that I have given these hints do you know whom I mean? Sure you do. It’s Hip, the little fox terrier who be- longs to Arthur Rigolo. Peter Caxxici, Jr., June ’27. THE JUNIOR POLICE PATROL It seems to me that of all the many organiza- tions in our high school the one that gets the least credit for its efforts is the Junior Police Patrol. The primary function of this patrol is to preserve order and discipline in the school corridors while the pupils are passing to their various classes. However, in addition to this, the patrol is always ready to serve at all high school activities, such as games, lectures, mov- ing picture shows, assemblies, etc. This patrol is composed of students from the upper classes. They are recommended to Mr. Nutt by some student who was on the previous year’s patrol. When the necessary number of recommendations has been accepted the students appointed hold a meeting at which they elect a chief, and formally become the Junior Police Patrol for that semester. This semester the patrol was composed of the following members: Robert Caverlv, Chief; Emil Bednarcik, George Bell, Roy Nielsen, Warren Piaget, Leon Pra Sisto, William Quack- enbush, Arthur Rigolo, and John Telischak. Wm. Quackkxrush, Feb. '27. “THE BIRTH OF THE BLUES” While I was listening to a popular orchestra playing an hour of dance music, one of the numbers played was “The Birth of the Blues.” This thought struck me,—when was “the birth of the bluesr “The blues” probably first saw the light of day when some person started to knock the world, and its make-up. Since that time, the blues have taken quite a powerful hold on many people. We meet many people indeed who look like the original blues. We feel sor- ry for them and wish we could help them. I’ll tell you how—it’s an easy task. Let’s give the death-blow to the blues in C if- ton High School by being friendly, sociable, and above petty differences. Return a smile for a frown. A cheerful nod, word, or smile will do a great deal in changing “The Birth of the Blues” to “The Death of the Blues.” Here !s a time when a killing is justified. A. S. Ovkrbbck, June '27. HELPING CLASSMATES Everyone hates to be termed “a poor friend.” and yet to avoid being so called lie is continual- ly proving to himself and the more intelligent ones among us that he is not a good friend. For he knows himself, when he does that thing which will help him to be called a wonderful friend, that he is doing wrong. God gave us the power to decide between right and wrong; why not use that power? It is said. “A true friend is one who shows you your faults, and then helps you to mend them.” Everything would be all right if we upheld this adage in the right manner, but we don’t. Oh ves, to-day we “help” our friends by making them dependent on us or others—not giving them the self-reliance which they must have to confront the battles of the world. Let us see how we can truly help our class- mates instead of hindering them. If one should ask you what the answer is, don’t tell him; make him understand the problem, whatever it may be, and make him find the answer himself. Don’t sacrifice your honor and his too for the sake of “helping” a friend. A boss does not do the work for the employee; he shows him how to do it. You can’t skate for a person, but you can show him how. So let it be that you can’t do the problem for your friend, but you can tell him how. In so helping a person you are helping your- self infinitely more. Instead of having a guilty feeling, you’ve done something you can be proud of giving someone a step toward success. In- stead of hindering a friend you’ve helped him intelligently; instead of soliciting the patronage of the unintelligent, you’ve acquired the favor and recognition of the wise. Instead of losing the battle against temptation with yourself, you’ve won. And, finally, in your own soul, if not in the minds of others, you are approaching the standards of a true friend. Paulina Alexander, Feb. ’27. PAGE FOUR

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THE REF!. ECTOR CI.IFTON HIGH SCHOOL F E B R C A R Y 9 2 7 The music seemed to he sloxver than before. The American waited with eyes that seemed riveted to the figure of the man. He had taken his violin again, and closing his eyes he began to play. The melody was in a minor key, sad and melancholy. Then quite suddenly it bright- ened, and rippled like birds in spring and water splashing over rocks—then just as suddenly the first refrain. Instinctively the soldier thought of a life that might have begun very, very sadly, and then for a while been happy and free, like a spirit uncag- ed, and then, alas, a sad, horrible ending, that seemed to come before all dreams were realized and all purposes accomplished. The soldier knew the man had originated the masterpiece—as he knew also it was a master- piece. It reminded him of his own dream—his one dream that could not he realized—his dream of one day writing a melody that would tell a story, the story that this one had told. If only he could remember it—if only he could just put down a few bars that would help him to recall it when he got back to the bar- racks. If he could but play it just once on that violin the wonder-man held, he knew he would never forget it. The music seemed to be slower than before the sound seemed to come almost unwillingly— as if it were unfitted for its reception in this old French cellar. The musician's eyes had opened and they seemed even larger and more dream- like. Suddenly with one last stroke of the bow, the composition ended, and for just a moment the musician stood very, very still—and then he smiled a gloriously happy and satisfied smile —that filled the soldier's soul with awe. And before the eves of the astonished soldier the musician fell, and the soldier knew before he reached him that he was dead. And now could he—or would it be just too horrible—to play the music he had just heard ? The desire to fulfill in part his wonderful dream was too strong for him. and picking up the violin he gave to the old crumbling walls for the second time, the story of the sad and lonely life. When lie had finished lie seemed to be a person in a dream. Mechanically he laid the bow and violin beside the old man. gently kissed his hand, and followed the wall back to the world of reality. Outside in the cool air he wondered if it were true that he had really experienced this—he hardly knew what to call it. He hurried to the barracks and finally, with the aid of a candle and a borrowed three hours from his time allotted to sleep, he transferred to paper this haunting and beautiful melody. Then lie sealed and addressed a large envelope to a music publishing house in New York City. Vaguely as he wrote New York, U. S. A., he wondered if he would ever see it again. He transferred to paper this haunting and beautiful melody. The next morning found the soldier at the front gripping hard his musket and steeling him- self to the utter horror of the scene around him. His friend—his best friend taken he’d show them—But crash! Another shell, and he feil next to his friend. His dream—God. that won- derful dream—it had come true—he had writ- ten the music—perhaps it was not his to write PAGE SIX