Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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THE REFLECTOR Cradle of Civilization I stood in an open doorway The molten stream of iron flowed And watched a jibcrane bearing Into a mold, the weak gleam A ladle full of liquid metal Of the lamps was extinguished That shimmered and bubbled away.By an intolerable glare of light. Seething, glowing, spitting, That ladle, slowly swaying The molten metal spilled in Upon its ponderous crane A sparkling, glaring film Is the cradle of civilization. Over the side of the caldron. It bears Every drop as it struck with a boom Nails that hold the pictures The white hot expanse below Sizzled and bounded away In a thousand searing points. Above the swaying ladle High in the black pall Of the roof the shadows were Pierced by the dazzle of arc-lights, But when the ladle tipped and With a barking, crackling roar on the wall, Wires that bring news Of wars—birth of babes—peace, Engines, bridges, pens that May write Love letters or perhaps The liberty of a race as Lincoln’s Wrote it. Julia Noonburg, June, ’30. The Rainbow First the flaming red Springs vividly forth. Then the delicious yellow, And the pure blue spreading o’er the autumn sky. Then of sadder hue Emerges the deeper indigo. While the last glimmer of the great curve Dies away in the fainting violet. Sebastian Puleo, June ’30. June Lilies upon their dark green saucers, Violets swaying their heads like laugh- ing youngsters, The dark green velvet carpet with flashes of red and gold here and there like lightning on waves in a stormy sea, reflected. The Sun, master of life, with a triumphant haughtiness is shining up above, inspiring the entire universe to sing the eternal hymn of Nature’s love. Sweet June with its elating fragrance has come once more, Through flowery fields, a tender breeze is blowing, bringing to every one new vigor. Marie Andreotta, June, ’30. Eighteen

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THE REFLECTOR With her usual speed she was out of the water and on her way to the club house. Barry, however, had different ideas on the subject and swung her around by the arm. What’s the matter, Bobby? You seem angry at something.” Bobby stood there, a defiant figure. Don’t think I’m a curiosity you can study any old time, just to get a kick out of something! You can’t make a fool out of me!” Why, Bobby, what are you driving at?” It didn’t take long to blurt out her story. So, I’m telling you right now, I don’t like dancing--1 hate it--- and I hate Glo and Pat and Alice and Dotty-----and I hate you too.” Here a tear escaped and ran down her nose. Why, Bobby, you didn’t believe what that crowd said, did you? I never thought anything of the sort. You’re not comical, and you’re not a perfect scream----1 think you’re a ripping good sport. Let’s be pals ----and don’t cry, please.” Another tear ran down Bobby’s nose, but she hastily brushed it away. I’m not crying,” she grinned, and thrust out her hand. Good sports don’t cry. Let’s be pals.” Her brown hand in his and her brown eyes smiling up at him, they raced to the car. Laughing and out of breath, they threw themselves in. Next to Barry, Bobby somehow felt that she had found a true friend. Barry looked down at her and smiled. Pals?” he questioned. Pals,” whispered Bobby. Grace Wood, June ’30. Faith She sees the best that glimmers through the worst; She feels the sun that is hidden under clouds; She spies the spring thru the winter long; She visions the lark on the leafless tree; Looking forward to the best— This is faith. Alma Fain, June ’33 1 Saw You Smile Today is such a gray day, I saw you smile so brightly, And I am such a sad thing. And I too could laugh lightly— Why was I such a glad thing But that was years ago, dear, Just yesterday? Though yesterday. Emily Oettel, June ’30. Dust that was rose, Dust that was jade— Poets may die But words never fade. V. Grounds, Feb. ’32. Seventeen

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THE REFLECTOR The Hangar Towering stands the Hangar A giant of buildings, Cold and inhuman. Its intricate mechanism Instills in the onlooker An animal-like fear, A feeling of awe, Not easily overcome. Firm stands the Hangar. A monument of progress; The home of the airship— Long, slim and graceful, With its sides shining white In the glow of the sun. Lone stands the Hangar. In the center of the field’s Wide, windswept level A Beacon, a haven, too, For weary airmen Exhausted by long hours At the ship’s controls. Only a building, yet symbolic Of the age of wonders, The age of speed, and Unheard of accomplishments By men of genius, men Of daring, men skilled In the workings of machines. More than mere columns Of steel and concrete— A monument of shining light Flashing forth, a signal, A herald to the hordes, Of advancing civilization. Waldo Miller, June ’30. Winter Loves Don’t you love the flaky snowdrifts, Pearly white, Looking like high mountain summits Bathed in light? Don’t you love the sound of sleighbells Ringing clear, As it leaps and bounds and revels Drawing near? Don’t you love the frozen water’s Silver sheen, Looking like the shining tatters Of a dream? Don’t you love the marks of footprints In the snow, Seeming like the tracks of giants Long ago? Fay Bolton, June ’30. Nineteen