Columbia School - Hourglass Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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he knew - the futility of being one person among the worId's millions or one waterdrop among the millions ofdrops in the ocean - rid- ing high on aswell, breaking into individuality as a bubble of foam, and then crashing, Falling from the heights, to become lost as a part of a rushing mob, being pushed and pounded against a wall only to be washed away and swept up again in the never-ending merry-go-round. He turned then, For he felt something be- hind him . It was a policeman. Now there was one on eitherside. A greatform infront of him blocked the ocean from sight. He turned and went with them, the song of the sea still ring- ing in his ears. Janet Adams POSSIBLE FUTURE Row on row Of books on the shelf Sulk in the dust OF memories. Their pages, once new, Decay With treasures Undiscovered. Page after page Of beauty obsolescent Rots in the stench Of modern thought. Immortal philosophy Becomes stagnant, With great truth Forgotten . Year after year Plato and Socrates, Peter and John, St. Francis of Assisi, The Sermon on the Mount, The Psalms, Milton, Wordsworth, Keats, and Shelley Die, And die again . Hurry, hurry, hurry. . . The generations Are absorbed In the Atomic Age. The individual, No longer an element Or a compound, Is but an electron . Grain by grain The sand slips through, But the hole is larger- Time is the element. Time is no more For thought, Dreams, And philosophy. Faster and faster The grains fall, But the glass has no bottom Founded on thought. When the last grain Has disappeared, Man is no more, The Bible Has no chance To save Man . . . From his Fate. Row on row Of books on the shelf Sulk in the dust Of memories. Peggy Foxall, '54 OUR MOTHER CHOOSE Boniour, Mlle. Cameron. Really! These Setziorswe they nmlcc so mzfclz noise! Morgan, what do you say when you come in? That is better. Do I want you girls to knit me a hat? Oh yes, that would be beautiful. But I don't want it all differentcolors--I wantit red . Bon- iour, Mlle. Newton. It must be red go to with my coat, and not so longp it will drag on the ground when I walk. Bonjour, Mlle. Harris. Good grief, not IWIOIIIC1' picture of it 1101 .' My, isn't he handsome! His name is Bill? But

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SUN, SAND, AND SEA He was huddled against the pilings driven deep into the sand--conscious only of the cool, moisture-laden air blowing against him in the darkness and the mysterious rumble of the sea . He was alone . Why had he come here? Was itfor the sol- itude, the peace that comes to the world before the dawn? Was it to escape the things of the world and to turn to expression of the soul? Or was it an attempt to flee from haunting thoughts and troubles, to throw off the burdens that the day would bring? lt was probably the last, for the face rest- ing on the strong brown hands bore a look of despair and deiection unusual to one so young . There were furrows between his brows and lines of thought or worry wrinkled his forehead . What was his problem? A lover's scrap? A quarrel at home? Or was this something bigger, a sin or even a crime? Was he capable of crime? The young face was rather hard, and there was nothing about it to imply honesty. There was a look of pride and arrogance in his eyes, which were not shifty, but haughty, superior. The wind blew, the ocean rolled, and low in the East a faint glow could be seen. The glow spread. Fingers, now gold, now silver, snatched at the darkness. And then the sun burst out of the sea, chasing the blackness from every crannyin the beach and turning to gold the long-broken frag- ments of sea-shell nearly hidden in the sand. The day had come. He sat on the edge of the dunes, the noon- day sun beating down on his head and the ocean spread out before him . The beach was a fumbled mass of running, shouting and laughing people, and the water was filled with floats and young people, toys and small children . There was a squad of life- guards, each supervising the activitywith-one eye and appraising the bathing beauties with the other . But he sat alone. He wasn't touched or affected in any way by the mob as he sat on the warm white beach, leaning againsta twisted tree-trunk half-covered by the drifting, eddy- ing sand . He turned his head- and studied the grass- covered dunes behind and beside him . A glitter caught his eye and, to see what it was, he stood up . There, not twenty feet from him, was a sparkling, sequined purse lying on an empty blanket and partially hidden by dune-grass. He looked around, no one was watching, it would be easy. He glanced again, the sequins were beckoning to him. With slow deliberate steps he approached the blanket, trying to look casual. Another swift look about and he stopped . The purse was his. He hesitated a moment, thrust the purse into a capacious beachrobe pocket and turned his steps toward the center of town . The white, glittering sand eddied and shifted, covering the footprints with a thin film of tiny breeze-driven particles. High above the beach in a cracker-box house set on long stilt legs, a coastguard officer made a 'phone call. lt was all there, he had the information right beside him--name, age, height, weight, and beneath it, Wanted for armed robbery, assault and battery, third offence. A new charge would be added soon: petty theft. The whistles and sirens blew. Policemen poured onto the sand . The young man was not on the beach . The sand swirled and shifted. The tracks were gone, obliterated by nature . He emerged from the darkness of the marsh- grass into the pale moonlight and turned to- ward the sound of the sea. It seemed to call him and he hurried toward it. The waves shimmered in the moonlight, rising to a crest, crashing clown, and then foaming and pounding as they hit the beach. The sounds made by the rushing water formed a pattern, but each was an individual, its path could be followed from beginning to end. He stood thus for some time, taking in the beauty and the mystery of it, the moonlight on the water and the mist blowing around him . And then he frowned. This was something

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what happened to that other one, Andy? Oh, he 'ditched' yOU . These poor geeses, they ca-n't keep ri lwy for more than FL week. Bon- IOUF, Mlle . 'I Ol7,tI1is FOXUll,I'lI7lll1ISC1ilJ' real pencil all up on lzer papers. FoxqII, COETIS here . Your French is an abomination! Will you look at this paper. You don't understand? I'll give you your 'don't understand'I I wear my- self out explaining this grammar and this is what you give me . Turn off that light, Baltzer. We don't need it. Put up the shades and there will be er'1OUgI'1 light. You woulcl think they were all lJliml. Oli, 770, 110111 uflmt are tlieyiip to? Take it off--I do not want Newton's hat on myhead. No, I do notwant it. You Seniors, honestly! Oh good grief, take it off or I'Il shake you like a plum tree! Now I have to fix my hair all over again . Was flmr the bali? The bell has rung. The bell has rung! Do you all want to be mark' late? Come out of. that closet right now, Galbraith. Beale, see if there are announcements. Bowman, go check upon the closet. This room smells like rr 7ii.C77lS smoking clulv. Really, girls, do yOU WCIFII' me to take over? These are supposed to be an- r1OUnCemer1I'S . These papers, they are impossible! AII right, if there are no more announcements you may talk quietly. I said quietlyl Oli, IIUIIIIIIS the usel You mGy 90 now. Van Deventer, put that chair back where it belongs. Not like that, I, want them five in a row! Now get along, you will be late for assembly. Cynthia Thomson, '54 A DESCRIPTION AND A THOUGHT As the last note of Taps faded off among the silent trees I said a hastygoodnight, sleep- tight to my campers, grabbed my lantern and headed for the canoe dock. The night was bright and crisp, so beautiful that I felt like singing. Here and there the friendly light from swinging lanterns peeked through the trees. Whispers and suppressed giggles hung on the cold air as the counselors, free from the routine of the day, hurried off in search ofexcitement. Taking advantage of the beautiful evening , and knowing that it was to be one of our last here, Cornie, Nan, Sylvia and I decided that we should paddle around the lake . As I neared the canoe house I heard Sylvia's fami liar giggle and knew that they were waiting for me. I entered, kicked off my shoes and lifted my share of the canoe . The black water noiselessly received the canoe and held itclose to the dock without a helping hand from us. Without a word we set off into the trail of the moon, each of us thinking her own peaceful thoughts . No sound ventured out of the darkness except the hushed gurgle of whirlpools when the paddles slid through the water. The majesty of the beauty almost choked me. The mist was iust beginning to rise and wispy fingers of it languorously reached up- ward to the full moon. One sliver of a cloud, a memory of the flaming sunset, was a back- drop for the moon. Above the mist still loomed the tall, straight pines with their silvered branches throwing long, wavering shadows across the mirror-still water. The picture was complete. And the rhythmic motion of my arms with the paddle lulled my mind to oblivion of all but the beauty at hand. When the dying strains of Taps from all the camps had died, laughter drifted out onto the lake, and voices out of the mist announced counselors from many camps who, free from their tasks, had sought the silent lake for en- ioyment, as we had. The voices approaching were familiar and the words of their song floated through the mist to usgwe ioined as did other voices from canoes veiled by the mist: . . .But you must have faith, And you must have hope, You must love and be kind and so- If you search, if you wait, You will find the place Where the four leaf clovers grow. When the words died away we dipped our paddles once again and set off for the end of the lake. In the distance we saw the candles from the Candlelight Service at Camp Norway carrying wishes out into the mist. The campers stood on the shore, each thinking, I was sure, ofthe gay summer days which had passed so swiftly, and of the candle seeking its way out