Columbia School - Hourglass Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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into the darkness carrying a dream and a hope for next year. The campers then filed slowly to their cabins as we stared thoughtfully after them. Over the water we sang to them, hoping that they would hear and understand the words which meant so much to us: Remember beside the campfire, Remember when you're away, Remember the friends you've made here, . . .Remember where 'ere you wander . . . Yes, remember.. .remember and be glad that you've shared a bit of beauty in a world of excitement and nervous activity. From the diving float familiar words followed us as we paddled away. The Norway counselors had heard our song and had understood: Should old acquaintance be forgot... My paddle dipped, circled, and dipped again while I thought of this significant thread of understanding between strangers brought into acquiescence by the beauty and peace of the moment. Peggy Foxall, '54 CIRCLE The gong rang twelve. Darkness, The mystery of night, Blackness, A dreary, empty city to behold . It was night. The clock struck six. Now, light. Gone was the fear Of the night A peaceful, serene city to see, It was dawn . The clock chimed noon . Day, Clearness of step, People gay, A busy, happy city now. It was day. The gong rang twelve . Darkness, The mystery of night, Blackness, A dreary, empty city to behold. It was night. Nancy Lowenthal, '54 HOME Antony Passino, an elderly man with dart- ing eyes, stood on the dock, dressed in awell- fitted navy suit, gleaming maroon tie, and highly polished black shoes. But behind his lustrous facade dwelled a bewildered antici- pation . The docks were active with the usual bust- ling and busy-ness of the docking of the ocean liners from the United States. Shouts in several languages sped about among the thronged crowd which stood behind a heavy cord. Passino's eyes flashed hurriedly, as he looked around in confusion . With a small bag in one hand and his passport and papers clutched tightly in the other, he moved. It seemed as though a strong undercurrent rushed him to the custom's office . With hesitation in his voice he spoke in Italian to the efficient officers. The imposing movement of the dock was being left behind now. Taxi horns blasted in the narrow, cobbled streets, and dark-haired policemen blew their whistles furiously in an attempt to untangle the impatient traffic. Beyond this scene ofcommotion, the quiet, tired buildings of Genoa patiently, like the old retired fishermen, listened and observed new life . Time hurried by as Passino wandered among the streets and markets which were all that he had known forty-eight years ago Now that he was at the place which he had longed for so often, he realized that it was not as he had left it. Instead of the colorful vender, shouting i0CUnd songs about his wares, he saw symmetrical buildingsaligned along the narrow walks, with glassy lettering spelling brand names of breakfast cereals, electric heating blankets, and radios. The music of the organ grinder had faded and in its place was the harsh blasting of car horns and radios. Across the street from the big church where flower stalls stood there was now a cluster ofcheap souvenir

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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

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stands. He walked deiectedly, his head bent over. Even theflashing of the bold neon lights could not penetrate this mood. A drooping form, he walked up the old hillof the city to the house where he had been born. The street was changed, too. Where was the tree by the last bend in the road where Cousin Angelo had had the mishap with the basket of olives? Soon appeared a bullet-beaten structure, empty and neglected . Passino moved about the house, cherishing everysmall bitof fami l iarity. As evening drew her shade and the declining sun set a blanket of soft, rich jewels upon the Mediterranean, his thoughts began to unravel . He had awaited these moments for almost a half century, but now, what was it that he felt? Until this moment, Passino had thought of Italy as his home and had often dreamed of the ioy of returning. But the reality was different, not as he had imagined it would be. His thoughts turned back across the Atlantic. Down on the next level of the hill, a bell tolled twice, and soon voices from the old orphanage proclaimed with exaltation the glorious Ave Maria , the same Ave Maria he had listened to in his small church in Amer- ica. As if an angel had blown a response to Passino, he felt theanswer in his heart. Amer- ica was his home too. Penny Critikos, '55 DISCOVERY The seventh house in the long row of tene- ments is hers. She is a small thin girl, red hair trying to curl around her delicate, rather peeked, face. Slumped on the front step, thoughts run through her mind. Resentful, sullen thoughts. How she hates this shabby street. On the broken cement sidewalk a man shuffles his way home. He is her next-door neighbor and she has never seen him look any- thing but tired and wan. A quick pity reaches her when she notices him, but it is quickly blotted out by scorn . lt isn't her fault that he leads the kind of life he does. lf he had tried hard enough, things would not have been as they are now. He turns wearily up the short dirt path leading to the door, by which some spring flowers are trying bravely to survive. The man stops and looks tenderlydown atthem. He stands there for a few minutes and then, as if on impulse, stoops down, all ofa sudden no longer tired, and gathers two or three. Then on into the dingyinterior he goes, carrying the pitiful little bouquet as if itwere made ofgold. The small girl looks after him with a mix- ture of pity and scorn. But her eyes are drawn from him bytwo small boys a few houses down. They are fighting and then the smaller one runs crying to his home. The other boy stands watch- ing him for a moment and then runs after him, calling. The one who is crying stops and turns. The older child comes up to him, followed by a small brown mongrel pup. The girl watches with wonder as their differences are forgotten in their simple ioy over this dog. Can it be that the life here on the street, on which she has lived as long as she can remember, has its own joys and moments of happiness? No, she quickly puts this passing thought out of her mind . There is no joy in their dreary life. Across the street, at one of the most run- down houses of the entire street, a poor boy selling magazines pauses, and then rings the doorbell. A shabby woman comes to the door. She looks compassionately at the poor hungry- looking young boyand invites him in. In a few minutes he emerges, pocketing some change and wearing a grateful smile. It is getting dark and the lights are begin- ning to go on in the houses. From her seat on the still warm cement block, she can see into the houses clearly. The windows with the cracked panes reveal bare light bulbs which shed a ghastly and terrifyingly realistic light on the water-streaked wallpaper and empty bookcases. She tears her eyes away, stinging with tears ofself-pity, and thinks passionately that she will escape from here sometime and never come back. She will forget all these people. What did they ever do for her? Had they ever had any happiness, or brought hap- piness into anyone's life? She thinks again. No, her parents are kind,