Cumnock School - Chronicle Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)

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CONVERSATION Tom Degnan Conversation, as l use the word, is distinguished from mere talk in this way: talk is broken, intimate speech between two or more people on homely and, in most instances, trivial affairs such as are discussed at the dinner table in most families, conversation is the oral exchange of sentiments and observations in a more or less sustained manner upon topics of more lasting interest. Oliver Wendell Holmes' Breakfast Table series often dealt with the unimportant affairs of the people with whom he lived, but the more interesting parts of the books, in my opinion, were those parts in which the author depended, not simply upon his skill in charming the reader with a combination of humor and pathos, but upon the choice of subjects which turned upon questions of philosophy, science, and art. Dr. johnson once remarked, after an evening at an acquaintance's home, that there had been a great deal of talk but no conversation. l believe that conversation is as important and, at the same time, as scarce as johnson proclaimed it to be at various times. For example, during recesses and lunch hours, there is, to paraphrase Dr. johnson, a great deal of banter and joking but very little conversation. One man talking to another may not learn much from the other man, but he cannot help having his ideas clarified, he must substan- tiate his statements with convincing evidence, in answer to the challenges of his companion, if there is disagreement, or to keep the conversation flow- ing, if both he and his companion hold the same opinions. Speaking of con- versation, Robert Louis Stevenson sagely remarked that it is by far the most accessible of pleasures. lt costs nothing, it is all profit, it completes our education, it founds and fosters our friendships, and it is by talk alone that we learn our period and ourselves. FROM THE jAPAN ESE the nightingale begins his song but . . . all the house attends the dinner gong! i .e.c. ll7

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A PRAYER june Rhinock Give me the stars on a velvet sky. Give me the wind on a mountain high. Show me the hills in purple light Give me the quietude of night. Give me the plains-a sunset red. Let me live over the life l've led. Give me peaceg and come what may Give me the fortitude of day. Give me the trees, in verdant green. Give me the joy that might have been Let it be autumng and soon again Give me the sound of the pattering rain. Give me the sea, the placid sea. The golden sun-light that falls on the lea Give me respite from cares and strife- Show me the loveliness of life. FROM THE IAPANESE wreaths of fragile violets their fragrance bringing swarms of jewelled butterflies alas! they hide a coffin i .C. C.

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BERMUDA AT NIGHT june Rhinock As a tired child sleeps, so Bermuda slumbers on through the star-filled night. Green lawns almost black in the darkness, are in striking contrast to chal-k-white houses tucked away beneath the warm and sheltering blanket of sky. The only audible sounds are the clop-clop of a horse's hoof, as he plods wearily homeward, the uncertain, quavering voice of the old cabby raised in song, reminiscent of by-gone days in London, and the gentle lap- ping of crystal-flecked waves on the silent beach. The sand sparkles as though heaven had opened and spilled its precious treasure of diamonds upon the shore. Long fingers of iridescent moonlight caress the placid waters like silver streamers on ebony velvet. Branches of weirdly silhou- etted trees appear to stretch out friendly hands to give one a warmly com- forting pat on the shouldersg while down in Devil's Hole , myriads of strange fish play in the clear cool depths, their scales gleaming as if studded with amethysts, rubies, and emeralds. In the harbor, and next to the main street, a great steamship rests, a silent guardian over the tiny hamlet, its portholes peering through the night with a hundred yellow eyes. Below us, from atop a neighboring hill, lies this enchanted island, a thing of elusive beauty, almost beyond expression. Above, the sky seems so near, that tonight we shall gather a basket of stars, stars that hang like angels' tears, so close to our outstretched hands, and yet so far away. FROM THE JAPANESE the summer night . . . so cool! the moon would seem to dream, floating in the tranquil pool. j. e. c. ll8