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

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certain of doing it justice. But this was not the case. To faint became common and vulgar, and gradually it lost its charm and meaning and almost disappeared from the earth. Many have tried to restore the lost art but as yet none have attained any degree of success. Perhaps those who finally achieve success because of their convincing eiforts will be the horde of bobby-soxers who, every time they hear the voice of a rather thin crooner, immediately set up a loud wail and swoon in unison. More power to them, say I, for the art of fainting is one which should not be lost to the world. Are You an Idiot? -Audrey Marx I have devised another one of those scientific quiz tests calculated to discern whether you are a flock of idiots. It is not like other tests. It's new. It's different. And I can pass it. The latter is one of the big advantages of the test. When I see one of these tests in a magazine, I read the first question with trepidation. When I look back to page 169, where the answers are found, to verify my guess at the answers, I sneak a glimpse at the answers to the second and third questions. When I look back to check whether I have remembered the answers to the second and third questions, I peek at the answers to the fourth, fifth, and sixth, and so on into the night. All the questions are written by someone who knows the answers. This time I am the boss. You have no idea what efforts I've put in and what headaches I've suffered evolving this novel test. I have put in a lot of research work on this matter since last night, when I was floored by one of these tests. The title of the test was Are You an Idiot? It was made up of ten questions on ordinary subjects. I knocked oil' the test in merely one hour. I added up my score, 27.08. Excitedly I turned to the ratings: 100-90 Genius 90-80 Almost Genius 80-70 Brilliant 70-60 Fairly Brilliant 60-50 Passably Brilliant 50-40 Not Too Bad 40-30 Idiot As the magazine fell from my hands, I conceived a plan of making my own test. This is it: There aren't ten questions in my test. If you can't answer one, you can't be expected to answer ten. So I limit mine to one question. The correct answer scores 100,000,000 A high score, you say, but this is better than any other quiz. It's a test to end all tests. Thinking caps on, everybody, and sharpen your wits. Here is the question: How much dirt is there in a hole 8 inches by 8 inches by 8 inches? Note the word Hole, It contains a clue to the correct answer. My own score is 100,000,000 but, you see, I know the answer!

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The Lost Art of F ainting ll ,. ' ' 0 O A iq , 4 ' if v 591 A N I fi , te - .4 I -- J -Joan Schusterman Has anyone ever actually taken time out from the trivial happenings in the average every-day life to contemplate the fact that no longer do people faint? That is, they no longer indulge in fainting-for-a-purpose. Time was when a well-executed faint could change an entire course of events. A graceful slump to the floor could decide a person's fate. A suppressed moan and a slowly crumpling body could change the history of the world. Why then, you will ask, has the art of fainting become virtually extinct? This is a very disturbing question and one which is difficult to answer. Not having actual proof of the origin of fainting, I shall have to do some oonjecturing. The first faint must have been used in the era of cavemen. A caveman, let us suppose, orders his wife to haul into their cave the results of his day's hunting which consists of some one hundred pounds of meat. The wife, complying with her husband's wishes, starts to rush to the mouth of the cave but her flight is interrupted when she trips and falls over a rock, striking her head on the wall. Her husband then has no alternative than to haul the load into the cave himself. Thereafter, wifey dear, whenever asked to perform a similar duty, immediately throws herself upon the ground in a dead faint, forcing Mr. Caveman to perform the loathsome task himself. However, even a cave woman can cry Wolf once too often and eventually friend husband, to use a colloquialism, catches wise and whenever he finds her lying on the floor, seizes her by the ears and forces her to do as he says. In the seventeenth century the art of fainting reached its peak when the court ladies learned its technique and proceeded to adopt and use it to gain their own ends. Picture a king in majestic array condemning to death a man who has com- mitted a ghastly crime. A beautiful lady-in-waiting fin alliance with the con- demnedl utters a low wail and, throwing her right arm up into the air, slumps gracefully to the floor. The king, his heart filled with compassion, pardons the condemned man. The latter immediately approaches the lady, wrings her hand warmly and strenuously thumps her on the back, by way of thanking her. He then proceeds about his own business. After this stunt has been successfully accomplished several times, the king realizes its purpose, thus exhibiting his amazing intelligence. After this, when a lady in his court faints, he either calmly ignores her, or has an attendant throw a pitcher of ice water in her face. After this, the art of fainting was resorted to by all types of people, whether or not they were qualified to use it. One must realize that this science should have been used only by the most polished and subtle, those who were absolutely I 'WWISGAWMF

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Candidate., Pursued -Arthur Palmer He had received a letter warning him not to run for mayor. Perhaps it was written by some crank, perhaps not. Nonetheless, now of all times, why should he sacrifice a promising career and yield to a piece of stationery? After all, was it not inevitable that he would be Bethwood Falls' next mayor? For weeks, he had been signing legal documents, preparing and presenting long, eloquently worded speeches. One night he would get away from all this. That night had finally arrived. He left his home unseen, through the rear entrance, and headed toward Main Street, consuming great quantities of the cool, clear air as he walked. He sought serenity, but soon found that Main Street was f ar from serene. There was electioneering everywhere. Massive banners, bearing his name and picture, were dangling from the roof-tops as far distant as his eyes could penetrate, but strangely enough, he was not recognized amidst these throngs of voters. Then he tumed about and walked in the direction of the East Side-the factory district. Surely, few persons would be there at this hour. There he would find the peace, the quiet, the tranquillity, for which he had starved so long. Most of the way, he heard footsteps behind him. His sus- picions were aroused, he hastened his pace, and his speed changed gradually from a walk to a trot, and then to a desperate canter. Down alleys and around corners he dodged, hoping with every turn and step to elude his pursuers. Hopping over a backyard fence, his eyes met with a welcome sight, a candy store-a place of refuge. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps they have a telephone. They did. As he darted into the doorway he stumbled over the jamb, but sprang to his feet immediately, entered a phone booth and deposited a quarter, for which there was no time to ask for change. When his fingers came in contact with the dial, a small, tin out-of-order sign dropped to the Hoor, -causing a sickening, metallic ring. And simultaneously his quarter dropped into the return coin slot with a similar sound. Metaphorically, as these objects fell, his heart accompanied them. No sooner had he left the phone, than the proprietor was at his side, ushering him out of the door, with the explanation that it was past closing time. He heard the door slam behind him, and the latch snap into place. He stood motionless for a moment, looking in all directions. THEY . . . whoever they might be, were not in sight but he felt their presence. Across the street, two ape-like figures stepped silently out of the shadows and moved towards him. Well, what do you guys want? he demanded, although he wanted to make a break for it. One of them spoke up. You're Floyd Hall, aren't you? Your campaign manager hired us. Why were you trying to give us the slip all night? We're your bodyguardsf'