Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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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

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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 van ng BARB'RA o' MAMIE Hiram Briggs chuckled softly to himself and slowly turned when she was no longer to be seen But the smile still twitched at the corners of his mouth What a girl she was' Ye know, he said afterwards to his brother Luke-Luke was making the quarterly trip to the town to have his horse shod and do shopping. It wasn't often he drove the twenty-five miles- Ye know, that girl's a wonder, an, allus wuz. I sez that to ma last night, and I sez that I wisht that young un o' Mamie's had been like her. Well, ma- ye know how ma is-well, ma near blew my head off. Cause she used to say that Barb'ra o' Mamie,d be a great piana player, er op'ra singer, er author-authoress, I mean-her with her looks, ye know, an' wavy hair an' sweet smile an' all. She did use to be quite nice, Barb'ra did. But dang it all! I never seen a person change so in all my born days. Charlie made quite a bit o' money at gamblin'. CHe was jest one 0' the few lucky guysj . Well, when Charlie made that money, Mamie made up her mind to take advantage 0, it quick, and send Barb'ra to school out east-Noo York, I b'lieve. So off went Barb'ra. Well, that was the last I seen o' Barb'ra fer nigh two years. An' when she come back fer her vacation, Mamie wanted me to paint up the old buggy-red, ye know, so's everybody could see Barb'ra comin' through town. I did it-ma made me--but course I couldn't help that the paint Weren't dry, an' I couldn't go fer her. I said it was dry, but ma said no, so no it was. Ma said it'd spoil that new suit o' Barb'ra's. What d,ye call 'em? Oh, I ferget. Anyway it wuz one o' them things with that thing slung around their shoulders. Ma sait it wuz very stylish, 'though I couldn,t cell the diff,runce between that an' the black thing my old granny used to wear for Sunday-go-to- meetin'. But I'm a man an' an old one-so Mamie says. I'm not. Old, I mean. I wuz jest seventy-six, two months and five days. I figgered it up that night. Not a day older! An', by jingo, if that tan coat o' Carol's wuzn't twice as nice, I'll eat my hat! But, anyway, as I wuz tellin' ye, that paint weren't dry, so I couldn't go fer her. O' course, ma made me tramp down to the station jest the same, but that wuz fun. Shell I tell Jake to put medium or heavy iron on? Hey, Jake! Jake! CHe don't hear meh. Hey, Ja-a-a-ke! Put medium iron on that black mare. Yeah, medium. Well, as I think I wuz sayin' Barb'ra went to school with Carol, oney they chose diff'runt crowds. Carol knew some o' the ways o' the society world, cause her ma come from Chicago. Carol felt at home. With Barb'ra it wuz diff'runt, I guess. She wuz all alone, an' jest couldn't make friends quick. It wuz oney her looks that got her anywheres. I s'pose it didnit take her long to find that out. An' maybe she leaned on them too much. 1 S ELIT, if it ain,t Carol Bryan an' her little lassie!', Old ' . H . V Eighteen