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

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

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 64 text:

When I was just a local guy, The girl that I adored In my presence yawned away, And seemed completely bored. Knee-deep in sundry other heaux, She gave me not a glance, But flashed her smile the other way 5 I didn't have a chance. The busy line I always got, W'hen I pleaded for a date. Every time I asked her out, It seemed I was .too late. And thus I worshipped from afar, Worship ped all in vain. Others may know joy in love, I only knew the pain. Then came the draft, away I went, To march and drill and train, Then, trim in army olive drah, I went hack home again. I chanced to meet my lady love, This time she was not cool, My unifonm intrigued the gal, But I, I was no fool. I saw her eye my three proud stripes, The insignia I sported, And suddenly I scorned ,the miss I once had vainly courted. Love me not just in khaki, For when we've won this war, And I'm only a civilian, You will drop me as hefore. Beware, oh fickle lady Who goes for things G. I. For the girl who's khaki-wacky Will he left alone to cry. A SOLDIER SPEAKS BY ADELAIDE SCHIFF