Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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THE REFLECTOR Once a snatch of song bursts spontaneously from my lips. Why, I'm actually enjoying myself. Now I begin to imagine I am in command of an army preparing to attack a stubborn foe. Most accurately I plan my assault, then charge into battle. First I cut a long rectangle through the hostile ranks, then rapidly I mow them down, always making shorter and shorter turns until an entire sector of the opposing army is destroyed. Then down to the front lawn I carry the attack, mowing on to victory, cheered by the hum of whirring blades. Time flies as does the grass, and before I know it, I have finished! Yes, actually finished! I find such a fact difficult to believe, but in- spection proves my suspicion correct. I have mowed the lawn! A feel- ing Of satisfaction and pride wells up within me as I revise the vanquished foe laid out in neat rows around the house. My maiden aunt suddenly taps on the window and, with a benign smile, points to a tempting dish of ice cream. Into the house I bound, whistling like a tribe of liberated canaries. Of course the blisters don,t appear until the following day, but, after all, blisters are only incidental. In spite of them I still maintain that penthouse dwellers miss one of lifels most satisfying pleasures when they neglect the ancient art of mowing a lawn. VERNON GROUNDS, February 1932. A tree, A silhouette Against a gaunt And lonely sky. A fire of pine Striving in vain Reverie The distance Lending a mellow Sense Of Loneliness To A melancholy Soul. To match The sunset, A floating Long past. Cloud Like A breeze A calque S. . Q11 inging A cadence to The Lonely acres of Wooded grandeur. The Bosporus. My reveries And . . . Me. ROY LALLY, February 1932 S r

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THE REFLECTOR On Mowing a Lawn I ' iii -MIENTHOUSE dwellers may cherish the idea that they are far y Ll superior in altitude at least to the average suburbanitc 1 I I1 Yet though I dwell in one of said despised suburbs no pangs mw .-, , p 6 W .I lm'-J,..m of envy pierce my heart when I compare my status with that of those who pass their days perched atop some mam- moth structure. There is one reason in particular why I am glad I am not an inhabitant of an ultra-modern domicile, for who has ever con- ceived the picture of a penthouse dweller with his coat off, his sleeves rolled up, his brow dripping with the moist results of his exertions- pushing a lawn-mower! The idea is preposterous, of course, for in most penthouses there is scant room for bare necessities, much less for lawn- mowersg besides, there is no place for a lawn. Consequently, a large per- centage of modern America exists without ever knowing the supreme de- light of mowing a lawn. There is absolutely nothing in creation that can compare with the exhilarating joy of pushing a whirring machine through deep, lush grass while the sun beams brightly in the sky and the little sparrows twitter in the trees. Ah, such pleasure passes the power of words. Only the for- tunate few who have experienced this rare rapture can understand why I rave about mowing a lawn. Let me picture a typical session with the mower for the unfortunate, uninitiated majority. Often on a summer morning while I gaze out on the lawn I grow philosophic and think, How rapidly grass grows. An inch a day, it seems. Well, such is life! We all must grow and grow, and since swimming is of great assistance in aiding human growth, I shall swim this morning, while the grasses grow unmolested by the sharp blades of the mower. Well, I may just as well get--. Suddenly a sweet voice interrupts my mute soliloquy, as my dear old maiden aunt suggests, It's a lovely day-for cutting the lawn. Like a mirage all prospects of going swimming fade into a haze of green. Silence is gold now, arguments are futile. With a blithe assent- ing opinion, I gloomily trundle the mower out, after oiling it very, very carefully, and very, very slowly. It makes a grating, grinding racket as I sullenly push it on ahead across the walk. Somehow the clatter alle- viates my feelings a trifle. My aunt hates noises, you see. Again I push the mower very deliberately across the walk, and then repeat the ac- tion. Now, I do feel a little better, but all my former resentment in- stantly comes flooding back when I survey the long yards of green that I must mow. Visions of blisters and sunburn float before my eyes as I finally begin my toil. Up one side, down along the same stretch, up again and down again, now close beside the hedges, now around the peach tree, up along the driveway--so it goes. Strip by strip the grass slides down, little by little without my knowledge I grow more gay. All at Sixteen

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THE REFLECTOR Age Like the mellow light of a turned down lamp, Or the old road with its better days goneg Like an ancient tree that has become carressing to the eye, A worn doorstep-just part of the whole, Like the covered bridge over the creek, Or a garrulous bucket's smoothness, Others, and these, are age. C. WOLSTENHOLME, June 1932 Fmgility The down of a butterflyis wing, A bank of dry sand, Or a new-born babe's hand, The turn of rice paper, Touch of translucent china, Ivory carved by hand. Love is more fragile than these. C. WOLSTENHOLME, june 1932 Sunset I like to watch the sunset At the end of an autumn day, As it throws its brilliant colors across the sky. Orange turns humble homes into palaces of gold, And violet, green, and rose reflected on the clouds Seem as bits of fairy landscape. How the colors increase in strength! Then suddenly, without warning, The whole scene vanishes from view, And I sadly enter my home. MATTHEW KAISER, june 1934 Song I hear a thrush at eventide Sing his ethereal vesper hymn, Pour out his tranquil psalm at dusk ' In dark woods growing still more dim. I hear a thrush at eventide And beauty stabs my heart like pain, I linger where the shadows are To hear God speak to me again, To hear God speak to me again. VERNON GROUNDS, February 1932 Eighteen