Far Rockaway High School - Dolphin Yearbook (Far Rockaway, NY)

Page 62 text:

J X: qi dli Q if i I if wif-. 4? :- Nx' ' FROM TI-IIE SCOIUIPILIMIE TCO TIHUE RIDICCIUILOIUS BY PAULA HOBERMAN Soup, as defined by that inimitable answer to an English student's prayer, Mr. Noah Webster, is a sort of broth prepared by boiling meat or vegetables with various other ingredients. To my hungry eyes it is the quickest mean proportional between my eager mouth and my more eager stomach. But since both of us agree that it is a food, let us get quickly to the main problem and its solution. Soup has been a provoking source of man's under- nourishment ever since its accidental discovery by the Royal Dishwasher of one of the ancient Pharaohs. The trouble has not been with its content but with the extraordinarily diflicult job of getting it from the plate to the spoon to the mouth intact. Crude as it may seem, by means of my invention, one can elim- inate the middleman. To people in the lower-intel- ligence brackets, this plan will seem entirely plausible. I think it's wonderful. Those in the higher I.Q.,s probably have a full set of teeth and consequently do not have to worry about a liquid diet. But now for the unveiling. I first conceived my device while watching my younger sister playing at the beach some twenty odd years ago. Odd? It's amazing! The object of her destructiveness was a toy pump. Filling it with water, she would press the handle down and the water would shoot out. We might have ended the day without any mishaps, had her aim not been so if N good. That day, however, she bowled over 300 people. As I opened my mouth to reprimand her, I became the 301st victim. At that moment, I knew my problem was solved. Realizing the full extent of the paper shortage, I now hasten to explain how to eat soup gracefully, noiselessly, and economically. cC0l1f. on P. 661

Page 61 text:

Yes, sir. When do I rejoin my outfit? The officer did not answer. It became apparent to Private First Class Johnny Hil- ton that he was expendable. He was to hold his position for as long as Heaven per- mitted. His was to be the supreme sacrifice. Private Hilton settled behind the trigger of his .30 calibre Browning machine gun. Good luck, fella, his commanding officer sputtered, trying to clear his throat at the same time. Good luckln In a few moments johnny's outfit was gone. He was alone, alone with his machine gun, waiting for the first enemy to appear. He was alone with his machine gun and his thoughts. I never thought it would end this way. Here I am, P. F. C. Johnny Hilton, ex- pendable. It looks as if they won't come for quite a while. Nothing to do but wait. I wonder how Ma and Pa and all the other folks are doing back home. Might as well read their letter again to quiet my nerves. I'm getting jumpy. Let's seeg where did I put that letter? Ah, here it is. Mom wrote this part. I could tell her writing anywhere. She writes that joey is due to graduate from high school. It won't be long now before my kid brother is the best doctor east and west of the Mississippi! I-Ie's got what it takes . . . The birds were singing, yet there was something strangely sinister about the whole scene. Overhead, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Now and then a multi-colored bird would flash over the treetops, winging its way to its nest. The beauty of nature was everywhere. Private Hilton knew that this scene was soon to be blotted out. His thoughts again wandered . . . There's nothing like a letter from home. Home, that sure sounds sweet. I sure miss the gang at the corner drug store. Barty, Mel, Lenny, Marylin . . . Marylin's brother, my best friend, killed at Pearl Harbor when those yellow devils . . . That was the reason I enlisted. I was so burning mad. At first Mom didn't relish the idea. I guess it was because she lost two brothers in the last war. We talked it over almost every night, and soon she came over to my side. Private I-Iilton,s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rustling in the under- growth. There, silhouetted on a rise in the road was a surging, bobbing mass of men. Fixed bayonets glinted in the sunlight. Johnny's finger inched toward the trigger of his machine gun. His sights up, he squeezed it. The late afternoon sun cast weird shadows among the palms. The atmosphere was peaceful save for the spasmodic roar of a machine gun. Soon there was complete silence. Six words stood out on the front page of a large metropolitan newspaper. United States Forces Retire on Luzonf' S9

Page 63 text:

THE TRAMP BY BENSON SOFFER John got up slowly, a look of astonishment stamped on his face. Good heavens, Yaroslavf' he said, in his big, hearty voice, why won't you paint the picture of my children? ' For once the mask faded from Yaroslav's handsome face. He paled visibly and tightened his hand into a hard fist. Turning toward the window he spoke to the open skies he loved so much. K! You have been very kind to me, John. You could not possibly understand. You like the children, don't you? John asked. ll I love them very much. Then why don't you paint them-?', ll No, I can not, Yaroslav interrupted. John sank slowly into his seat as Yaroslav turned to him. That cold night you found me lying by the road and brought me, whom you thought a tramp, to your home, and gave me shelter and food, you felt sorry for me. You did not ask and I did not tell you, about my past. Now I must tell you. I was born in a Bohemian village, the son of a college professor. It was a beautiful country, and I was happy until my father moved to Prague. There I attended the University and later entered the Austrian army as an ofhcer. In 1917, after our troops were de- feated and our lines broken, I, with many others, heard the news of the revolution. Knowing what would happen to us, we fled. You remember the story of the Czech detachment that made its way from one end of Siberia to the other? I was with them. I fled to America with my paints, and lived on the beaches, eating just the ish I caught, and painting everything I could. I was happy then because I wasn't running awayf' John looked more puzzled than before. What has this to do with my children? Everything Yaroslav answered. How could I paint the pictures of your chil- dren? I have seen the empty stare in the eyes of thousands of starving children. If I were to paint your children, could I paint what I see? No, I would be putting down those horrible things I have run away from. God made me love his creatures. I lived in their lives, rejoiced in their joy, sorrowed in their tragedies. I loved so much that I painted. Where people are murdered and starved I can not live. I have seen too many fine families shattered. I have seen too many unhappy children. When I watch your children, I remember how the others were before. I can not stay here. Perhaps CConf. 011 Page 66D 61