Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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THE REFLECTOR VII I- gy it Of course we all chime in with an enthusiastic affirmative We are thinking of a beautiful retreat where bushes and trees blossom in the utmost pro- fusion, where a murmuring fountain drips and splashes into a quiet pool, where every variety of the bird beautiful sings lusty melodiesg where one lies in the shade listening and thinking. Only a few of us, if any, remember our own gardens. It was unfortunate this year, but so it always has been. Last spring, when leaves were still caked about the stems of dormant plants, we reflected upon the state of the garden. How badly it needed to be cleaned. But, we continued, it was spring. It would be better to take a hike, the gardening could be done next week, we concluded. Within a week, however, che plants are beginning to show their heads. A little late now, we think, to clean it up ourselves. Perhaps it would be better to get a gardener, then the new plants would not be broken. We promptly forget it. A few more weeks pass. The plants have grown up-but they develop only a few puny flowers! Evidently they are not used to this treatment, they ought to be, though, after all these years. Now we become desperate. We actually inquire of a few friends where to hire a good gardener. They give plenty of advice. It appears easy. We let it slide. The weather gets hot. The garden is a sight. It resembles a plowed but unplanted field at the end of summer. No flowers are visible, only rank, overgrown, yellow-green weeds swarming with bugs. We are disgusted. It would seem that nothing but weeds flourish in our garden! We regret, maybe we abominate, and-sit! July turns to August. It gets hotter, and we become lazier. No use weeding the garden now, we think. There isn't time for anything to grow. Besides, if we were to uproot all the weeds now, the garden would be devoid of plants. We forget the garden and go on our summer vacation. We visit someone who employs a gardener a day or so every week. We envy his garden. He laughs. We determine to make amends to the garden when we return. But during the whole week after our return it rains. We already are used to the garden. The weeds are aware of it and flourish. Late summer turns to fall. The weeds shrivel up and turn brown. We decide to rake up the leaves and dead plants. We actually go out and walk around. Oh well, we think, perhaps it would be better to leave them as they are. They will help to keep the ground warm during the winter. We postpone all gardening operatons until next spring, meanwhile firmly resolving to have the finest garden on the block next summer. RICHARD GRUNDMAN, June 1934. ON UNWEEDING GARDENS -1'-'- '- ARD work indeed are gardens, but they are worth Q . l n 1 e N Q ' , l l Sixteen

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THE REFLECTOR lil X 1 Lazybones brings to mind the picture of a great meadow with a single, giant apple tree, in the shade of which meanders a quiet stream. It is here that one lies, either thinking or dreaming. I do not mean to say that he need build fairy castles, or reflect upon the fundamental nature of things, eternal. The subject of his thoughts may be, especially if he is rather introspective, himself. The thoughts of a lonely person, might easily turn to friends. It is trite to proclaim the scarcity of true friends. By friends I mean friends in the truest, deepest sense. Friendship, as Andre Maurois has pointed out, is unaccountable, inexplicable. Montaigne, when asked to account for the great friendship of his life, could explain it only in the words, Because he was he and I was I. But friends cannot be treated as inconsiderately as one pleases. Friendship must be mouldedg friendship must be a product of tact, gentle- ness, consideration. Hence it may be that, while lying alone beneath the ancient apple tree, one plans a policy of self-forgetfulness, naturally com- bined with consideration, in order to bind still closer a much loved friend. Of course it may be that our dreamer cares little for such topics. He may hum or sing. He may muse upon the actions of mankind, races, cities, houses, or casual social acquaintances. But, however he may be, he' thinks, unless he be a moron or an imbecile. Everyone needs a time for thought, by reason of which I close with the following lines of poetry: i There is a pleasure in day-dreaming, There is a rapture in drifting contemplation, There is a peace of mind in the lazy dreamer's eye That only dreamers can attain. GORDON Ross SMITH, June 1935. Villain Oh Spring, are you a demon in disguise? Are you an angel who would tell me lies? In spite of all your beauty, Do you think you do your duty When you make madness in my soul arise? I love to watch your beautiful display Of yellow-green against the sun's gold ray. I love your dainty flowers. Why manifest your powers And change from brightness to dim, gloomy, grey? Oh Spring, please have some sympathy for me. Please let me keep those moods of ecstasy. Please let me go on dreaming. Can't you keep your brightness gleaming? Must you display all this variety? FRED ROTHWELL, June 1934. Fifteen

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THE REFLECTOR VII IN Spring Fantasy Sitting at my window, I look into the past. It is spring. Soft feathery quills of tender grass Ripple and tremble with the soundless movements of people Who pass into the old farm-house, Where a ball will be held tonight, But the old house sighs in resounding emptiness, And a mouse scratches in a mildewed moulding. Golden cupped crocuses border the walk, The oriental spice of hyacinths drifts through the air, A rustling robed girl glides into view. A peep in the window reveals to me Noiseless laughter, and silent music, Starched formal manners of another day, The door opens but no light shines forth, A boy and girl wander into the garden. Pale wan moonlight lingers on the girl's young faceg Timid, half-fearful, the boy asks the old, old question. A sudden flood of cold, man-made light from a passing car Discloses the unpeopled garden in rude shadows. My misty dream is dispelled! I sigh and wearily seek my bed, But I shall always wonder how she answered. EDNA GRIMSHAW, February 1935 Wishes All the fluttering wishes Caged within your heart Beat their wings against it, Longing to depart, Till they shake their prison With their wounded cry, Open wide your heart today, And let the captives fly. Yes, some hearts are lighter While these captives roam. But, for their tender singing You'll soon recall them home, When the sunny hours With falling night depart, Softly they will nestle In a quiet heart. DOLDRES WAD E, February 1935 Seventee