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Page 40 text:
-fill piece, his Fifth Symphony. Yet, they
51- make me happy, and I am certain
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Cn Being An Album Of Records
' By Dorothy Samuelson, '45 ,
i AM an album of records. People
generally refer to me as Peter Ilich
2+ Tschaikowsky s greatest in a s t e r-
.lalso regard me as an uninteresting,
insensible' object. To discourage such
9 M thinking is my purpose in writing this
jf . article.
gig' My existence is neither uninterest-
4 ing nor am I without feelings. When
the lady of the house, where I have
been residing for the V past fifteen
months, disregards my chamber,
over to the one containing a rather
thick album of Strauss' Waltzes, and
. chooses it in my stead, I can readily
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assure you that my feelings are hurt.
Moreover, when Junior decides that
K he would greatly prefer "Sleazy
Sammy and his Slinky Slackers" to
that "ole long hair" music and aim-
,, . lessly tosses me aside, there is no
Q need to explain that more than my
I feelings is hurt, it takes very little
51, to remain clear and bright as long
I , as I am not subjected to such crimes
,e as neglect, abuse and misuse. '
' ' As for my duration being dull and
V - uninteresting, I should scarcely agree.
, Perhaps I have in the past suffered
g, an acute case of melancholia, but
last week I was joined by two 'other
albums. After a careful comparison
of facts I learned, to my great sur-
prise, that they are close relatives of
mine. One is called the "Romeo and
Juliet Overture", while the other is
the "Fourth Symphony," and both,
as I, are offsprings of Papa Peter.
The day the "Fourth Symphony"
arrived, everyone in our household
knew i-t. His voice squealed through-
out the rooms, and the other records
remained in the chambers until his
little discs were worn thin. He join-
ed us a little later with "Those folks
don't know when to let up: thev're
wearing me out!" From the time
of this pun, we all grew to love The
Fourthg he is indeed a jolly album.
Yet, in spite of his fine character and
cheerful disposition, he is, beyond
all doubt, the loudest and noisiest of
us all. Papa Peter-created this sym-
phony as a tribute to Madame von
Meek, but I am certain, at the time,
he had no idea that he was creating
such a brat. .
The 'Overture is a beautiful crea-
tion. She Has the charm and grace
of Venus, the lightness and swiftness
of Mercury, and the vicious temper
and fury of Thor. She is a delicate.
flower, a precious jewel, and is my
favorite. Yesterday one of my rec-
The sun had set, the day was gone,
And shadows began to glide
Around the corner, up the walk,
In search of a place to hide.
Night spread her blanket of darkness and
Not a star could be seen in the skyg
The darkness grew thicker, the fog more
The wind' blew a tempest on high.
The storm hovered near, gathering its
ords became lost in her album. That
was indeed a delightful experience,
for we were alone together. As
Junior was the only one in the house,
we remained uninterrupted, since he
was deeply engrossed in "Jumpin'
Jones and his Jivin' Jerquesf' She
promised to remember me always,
to be true to me forever, and to try
to be misplaced in my album as often
as she could possibly manage. This
may sound rather odd to you, since
I've previously explained that we are
close relativesg but you must realize
that it's all very different with rec-
ords. ! s
Yes, records are greatly different
from the uninteresting, insensible ob-
jects to which you refer. I have been
indeed happy in this house - my
home, and now that I have met the
Overture I am certain of future hap-
piness. My greatest pleasure is the
contented smile on the lips of an en-
thusiastic listener, and the sheer de-
light of being enjoyed. I am happy
here, and I wish to be forever loved
and cherished, wanted and heard,
played and not forgotten. I shall
forever bring forth' melodious strains
to you, serve you, and maker you hap-
py. All these things I am willing to
do-I, that uninteresting, insensible
album of records.
35. - strength, , . i
While myriad, of raindrops fell fastg
'A But then as if God had but frowned on.
ffj the scene,
,.. ,.,. ., ,
57,1-j,:l'gu The storm soon abated and passed. ,
. 1-fail' ' , ' ,
, Thirty-eight V E.C.H.Q,E:S.
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Page 39 text:
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Theres No Place Like Home
WHEN Life becomes too difficult,
when the cares of the world
are piled high upon my shoulders,
when everything is apparently set
against me, this is the time that I
think of home. These are dangerous
thoughtsg for I'm afraid that quiet
sanctuary in my mind and the often-
times madhouse down on Lowerline
Street never seem to coincide. If the
reader will be so kind as to permit
me, I shall attempt to tell him what
I mean by this statement.
I arrive. "Home, home at last!"
I cry. ,
My mother looks up absently and,
sweetly pecking me on my cheek,
says cheerily, "I'm so glad you're
home, baby fughljg I want you to
go to the grocery store."
Now there are many combinations
of words in the English language,
but none of them hold so dread a
memory as the above.
I try to think of something cut-
ting to say, so, after thinking furi-
ously for a while, I pour forth with,
Nob !!l '
I take my coat back out of the
closet, comb my'hair, and then ap-
proach Mother to see if I can find
out exactly what she wants me to
get at the store.
"Oh," she says, "just get me some
bread, onions, potatoes, and, . . . er
.V . . just look around and get me
anything you want."
That command just thrills me pur-
ple, because I know that if I don't
get exactly what she wants, I trot
back to the store.
-Q Well, I go out the door, feeling
as if someone had just used my only
shoe coupon, -and start darkly down
the street. Now I should give an
account of my experiences at the
store, but they are too boring for
my inadequate pencil to describe.
The general idea, however, is that I
return home laden with a bunch of
nothing, walk into the house, deposit
my loot on the kitchen table, and
try to get into my room without any-
one's noticing that I have returned.
However, I do not succeed, and
Mother spies me.
'After setting the table, making
some cream sauce and generally
making myself useful, I pick up the
evening paper and eagerly scan the
pages to find "Little Abner." As I
settle back to enjoy it, thoughts fill
my mind of the cheerful atmosphere
and peace of one's own home. "Ah,
there's nothing like it."
But, wait. What's that? It can't
be true, it mustn't be, oh-o-0-o, it is
-MY SISTER. She comes in and
glares at meg I glare back.
A "My blouse," she says.
."My necklace," I retort.
We finally agree on armed neu-
trality and she leaves the room. I
return to my paper and find my
place-you guessed it-my Daddy
comes home. This means dinner and
I still haven't read the paper. How-
ever, I'm not complaining, because
my mother is just about the best
cook in the world las whose Mother
isn't?J. To get back to the subject,
however, we sit down and eat, and
talk, and gave a good time. Ah, I
just love my family. After we fin-
ish, Mother excuses herself. We
talk a little longerg then Daddy ex-
cuses himself. Gloria and I sit there
talking until the cold realization
comes to us that we're alone-with
the dishes. - We sit there a little
longer thinking that maybe they'll
go away, or wash themselves, or
maybe the house will burn down,
and we'll have to rush out leaving
the soiled dishes on the table. We
aren't very lucky, however, and the
hour of doom approaches. If Fib-
ber Magee comes on .at eight-thirty,
and it is only eight-ten then, and
it takes us fifteen minutes to do
the dishes, we figure that We have
five minutes to sit around and talk.
we sit around all right, but we can't
think of anything to say except, "I
wish we didn't have to do the
dishes"g to which remark the other
About eight-thirty, after Gloria
and I make the pleasant discovery
that doing the dishesAdidn't kill us,
we settle down comfortably to listen
to Fibber- Magee. Suddenly, the
door bell rings, and guess what?
Now to let the reader get a pic-
ture of the grim humor of this sit-
-' ' ' g..
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uation, I must explain a few facts?
fact number, one-the Thompsons
are a one-radio familyg fact num-
ber two-the one and only is situ-
ated in the living room'g fact num-
ber three+-the company, amidst
chatter and laughter, decide to in-
dulge in a few rubbers of bridge.
Gloria and I look at each otherg
our faces are two feet long. We
drag ourselves into our room and
decide to read. I pick up the Mc-
Call's, and start looking through it,
when Gloria comes up and says,
"Why don't you let me read that one?
You have all the afternoon to read it
and I have only night." All after-
noon, indeed! AThat finishes it! I'm
going to bed.
That ends my little tale of a
peaceful, calm, tranquil, and a
string of other adjectives, day. All
I do then is to give my hair the cus-
tomary five strokes, get ready for
bed, and leap in.
Now, beloved reader, I have de-
scribed one type of day to you. If
you think you can stand it, I shall
make a futile attempt to tell you
of another type. In case you are
too discouraged, I shall try to re-
late it in as few words as possible.
I came home, full of fun, ready
for anything, energetic as a tank-
ful of gasoline, to find no one at
home. This type of afternoon is
usually spent in reading, lolling
around the house, and using the
telephone. This type, too, is entire-
Now, I should like to describe to
you that wonderful, beautiful, ex-
quisite day, that day of days, that
culmination of all that is ideal, the
day when everything goes right.
Ah! I should like to, but it is im-
possible. In the first place, I have
used up all my time, and in the sec-
ond place, I shouldn't known any
adequate words to describe it. The
only thing I can say about it is that
kind of day is what makes one real-
ize what home really means, what a
family really means, and what Life
would be without them. It makes
one realize that her home is her-
self, as much as it is anything else,
that it is Mother, Father, sister,
brother, cat, dog, everybody. As for
me, I think mine is one in a million:
I wouldn't trade it for the world.
Mary Anne Thompson, '45
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Page 41 text:
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Morning, In Hawaii
K Carolyn Atkins, '45
The golden sunlight trips along the
Of ranging mountains glistening in morn-
' ing dew.
Below, the gaily colored parakeets -
Chatter in palms that lean o'er waters
The gentle surf rolls up to lap the beach,
And breezes soft caress and cool the sand.
The rising sun with 'hues of gold and
Tints up the fleecy clouds that grace the
The valley swathed in its cloak of smoke
Awakes to greet the coming of the day.
The freshness of the night abides and
In every nook and glen of forest shade.
Without this marvel done each day for us
WlJat source -would be our hopes, our
' life, our trust? '
Hazel Muller, Post Graduate
Beauty blooms about us all,
Lodged in willows' graceful, tall,
Blushing in roses crowned by dew,
Smiling in a sky so bright and blue.
Beauty breathes about us all,
Norma Mae Miller, '45
While walking through the woods one
I stumbled on a nook V
lVhere different colored flowers
And a sparkling brook
Glided over mossy stones
Bubhling on its way
And pretty little fishes darted
Merrily in their play.
The air so sweet, the grass so nice,
The home of dove and raven,
T'was a minature paradise
This calm and tiny haven.
Why Can"t I Be Like Others?
Regina Taylor, '45
I wish that I could be
just like the other girls
Who always look'so pretty
With their hair all done in curls.
They wear such pretty dresses,
And look so neat 'and clean.
Their eyes have a certain sparkle,
And they always look so keen.
My Brother Pete h
N M. L. Vosbein, '46
I know a not-so-little boy V
Who is as cute as he can be, ,H
He's not so smart, but all the sahie
Means all the world to me.
He's just about five feet, I guess,
His eyes are big and brown.
There is a lot of mischief there,
And seldom does he frown.
He's not a genius, but he's smart,
In that he's just like mother,
. I :Qin
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A .: -an
Gowned in leaves of russet fall Tbflf 55005 "ff 0110415 P015-'beds Be in all the world" 'herds iw' one
Laughing in streams so crystalline clear, Th'-'if -'Wkf lffmfd down iflff fighl 'I Petef
Dancing on sunbeams throughout the A-V f0f me, 1 INN d0'1'f WW -'Wm Hes my tblftem year old brother'
Jregf. To be anything but a sight. g
Beagzty abides gwith us all, A Sailoy-
Em racing bot the great and small, ' h
I-Iovering ever in our sight The Life A Rose , . Alma Mitchell, '45
From golden morn to blackest night. Hazel Muller, post Graduate Bell-bottom trousers ,
Frail infant bud, Goff of 'WWJ' blue. '
So dainty, fresh and sweet to see, While WP ffl 50 ldfmflt'
A melancholy life does live, That's a sailor true.
Full soon is plucked from the tree.
. The girls all flock to see them
Full young bloom, Marching lmudly by . '
Who blows 'fore tempest, wind and rain, They yearn to see their boy friend
Or feebly droops' from scorcing sun, And ff? to fffffb bf-f eye-
Does lift her head up high again. . g
But marching down the avenue
Aged Nga, msg' With eyes so straight ahead
A-smiling through her pain and tears, Had lore to wie? md -'mile at he'
A ,oyal Mau to you 1 give A But marches on mstead.
Who has survived those cruel years.
Coat of navy blue - T
lVhile you're fighting on the seas'
She'll be ever true.' .
E-C-H-O-E-S ' V Thirty-nine 4 -
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