Franklin K Lane High School - Senior Echoes Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

Page 14 text:

THE RETURN Q- 'I 'r ,Cc fix up 4- -jr-.A They say There is a sTory behind every New Yorker. if 11 Y IT was one OT Those Typically hoT days made hoTTer by The absence oT shade. IT was odd, buT inTo The eTher came a sTrangeness, a someThing ThaT served as a symbol oT ThaT human beehive, The GheTTo. a melodic sTrain, so Toreign To This aTmosphere ThaT I began To ask where had I heard This beTore? Could This slime and TilTh produce someThing so beauTiTul? The air was gone, buT The melody lingered on. I could do no more Than waiT To see The Tace oT The one who had Tingered his violin wiTh such compassion. And Then he came. He was The GheTTo. In his cloThing could be seen The experiences oT a cheap and crowded exisTence. BuT iT was in his eyes ThaT I read my sTory1- wk 'Y wk The quieT room was disTurbed only by The heavy breaThing oT The man who lay on The ugly, broken bed. AT a Table saT a young man, his eyes Tixed upon his violin. Suddenly he leaned Torward and Touched The insTrumenT wiTh reverence. IT wouldn'T always be This way: his TaTher TilThy Trom a day's labor, his moTher slaving To give Them Tood and cloThing. In his imaginaTion an audience appeared beTore him, lisTening To him inTenTly: and Then came a shrill call To supper To break his vivid dream. BUT wiThin a year, wiThin one shorT year- Y if lil ElecTric IighTs now shouTed Saul RayTeld, ConcerT VirTuoso. No longer The broken room: buT now The broken hearT. He sTood beTore his dressing room mirror. a picTure oT perTecTion, sTill Thinking of his moTher slaving in The kiTchen, his shorT shabby TaTher reTurning home each day TilThy and exhausTed. They had reTused To leave The GheTTo even Though Saul had oTTered Them The luxuries oT his wealTh. A door opened and his paTron enTered, requesTing him To include in his reperToire a selecTion well liked by a wealThy Triend. In The mind oT This greaT musician ran The ThoughT ThaT an arTisT should be Tree To play Trom his hearT, noT his pockeT. He sTepped upon The sTage, a puppeT playing beTore a group oT immaTure children. He looked aT his audience. In The balcony were his people, The people he had known, had lived wiTh in The GheTTo. Below were The rich, so calm, so emoTionless. Among Them was his paTron's wealThy Triend, in a drunken sTupor. Again Saul looked Trom The coT'Tons down To The Turs, while The IighTs burned wiTh all Their glory upon him. lk lk lk He ThoughT again oT his parenTs, how They had undersTood his love oT music, how The Tears had Tilled Their eyes when he played. STarvaTion? Perhaps, buT every exTra penny wenT inTo his lessons. Their every prayer was Tor his happiness. Now he knew! He would go back To his people who knew and undersTood him. No longer would These Talse Taces appear beTore him, no longer The scum, who saT asleep in his Tull-dress suiT. His soul was brilIianTly igniTed. IT had Tound iTs way home aT lasT, a home in The GheTTo- Perhaps iT was odd, buT everyone in The audience had TelT The sudden change: had TelT The elecTriciTy in The air. They didn'T know ThaT iT was a soul which had Tound iTs way home! Ik Ik ii Indeed There is a sTory behind every New Yorker. Doris FiTTing IO SENIOR ECHOES

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O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! Q CapTain! my CapTain! our TearTuI Trip is done, The ship has weaTher'd every rack, The prize we soughT is won, The porT is near, The bells I hear, The people all exuITing, While Tollow eyes The sTeady keel, The vessel grim and daring, BuT O hearT! hearT! hearT! O The bleeding drops oT red, Where on The deck my CapTain Iies, Fallen cold and dead. O CapTain! my CapTain! rise up and hear The bells: Rise up-Tor you The Tlag is Tlung-Tor you The bugle Trills, For you bougueTs and riblz-on'd wre-aThs-Tor you The shores a-crowding, For you They call, The swaying mass, Their eager Taces Turning: I-Iere CapTain! dear TaTher! The arm be-neaTh your head! IT is some dream ThaT on The deck, You've Tallen cold and dead. My CapTain does noT answer, his Iips are pale and sTiII, My TaTher does noT Tee! my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd saTe and sound, iTs voyage closed and done, From TearTuI Trip The vicTor ship comes in wiTh obiecT won: IfxuIT 0 shores, and ring O loeIIs! BuT I wiTh mournTuI Tread, Walk The deck my CapTain lies, Fallen cold and dead. WaIT WhiTman

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TO A FRIEND Can I begin by calling you a friend? Your love and kindness mean much more To me Than iusl' The common Triendship which does end In pain, and sorrow, and humiliTy. For you who share so Treely whaf is yours, And love your Tellow man as God does ask, For you who smile, and Thus make IighT my chores. And make The hardesf work a meager Task, Could I buT Tind The proper words of praise, I-low Then would Shakespeare look in jealousy AT clever eulogy and Turn oT phrase, And lines To live Through all eTerniTy. BuT Io, I'm noT Trom common Tar aparT, And have no more To offer Than a loving hearT. William NesTor As Anne Turned The key and opened The door, The darkness seemed To reach ouT wiTh long grasping arms To enToId and smoTher her. She had a sTrange sensaTion of sTranguIaTion before The click of The IighT swiTch broughT a Tlood of reassurance To The dark corners oT The one-room aparTmenT. Funny, she'd never had any Tear of The dark before. AII ThaT overTime on The nighT shiTT is making me iumpy , she ThoughT. NexT monTh I'II be back on days again, and l'll feel beTTer. She puT her coaT away and sTarTed Toward The kiTcheneTTe To make a cup of coTIee. IT was Then ThaT she remembered The small blue envelope she had Taken Trom her mailbox downsTairs. LiTTing iT from her handbag, she smiled aT The round, childish wriTing ThaT spelled ouT: Miss Anne Rogers, 320 W. l25 ST., New York CiTy, N. Y. IT was a leTTer Trom her room maTe, Alice Ross, who was spending a well-earned vacaTion upsTaTe on her aunT's Tarm. Anne opened iT and read: . Annie Dear, Y lT's so good To be away from crowds and courTrooms. You know, I was beginning To eaT, sleep and drink lawyers, and Thieving murderers. I'm so Thankful ThaT ScoTT Bender goT all ThaT was coming To him. I read anoTher accounT OT The case This morning. Seems ThaT Bender will be hanged in June, -and all because OT my evidencel IT kind of worried me Tor awhile, wiTh some of his gang sTiIl loose, buT I'm a diTTerenT girl now, Annie. You should see The improvemenT This heavenly place has broughl abouT. Anne Tinished Alice's IeT+er, Tull oT gossip and bubbling over wiTh enioymenT, and TeIT a liITIe beTTer Tor iT. Alice Ross had always been The peppy halT of Their Team. JUNE I945 I I