Girard College - Corinthian Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

Page 10 text:

Looking Backward Bullock, McCullough, Schiavo, Server, Bove, Bryan, Davis, Kingsmore, Land, Melson, Shiner, Solomon, Wedekemper, and Wood. It is done. The beach is calling the ghosts back. Ere they go, however, they pay their respects to Messrs. Frey, Carey, Banks, Cullen, and Pfouts whilte the class look on with approval and appreciation. The land of the beach and jungle is now dark, and pan-like music steals silently out over the starlit waters as Orpheus woos the waves. Soldier, Miner and Politician T HE tourist trade would not be so profitable if travel were not enticing. We Girardians have known this enticement. In June of 1931 we were faithfully guided to the various points of interest at Valley Forge: the Chapel, the carillons, and the museum. But it was when we were left alone that we got so much out of our stay there by just wandering through the nearby woods or clambering over grass-clad trenches. Despite the softening effect of the time, the surroundings still reveal pictures of American struggles for liberty. We realize then why this place has become enshrined in the hearts of our countrymen. Can any boy look at those front line trenches and not picture the scene of America’s early struggle ? Shenandoah—means ascending rickety flights of black wooden stairs and gazing down on the work-a-day life of a breaker. Here breaks the noise of shifting screens and sliding coal which left us with a confused notion of the min¬ ing industry, but the cool quiet of the underground was different. No explorer could ask for more than to be drawn from the depths by a steel thread, like one resurrected and transported to the green valleys of Shenandoah. As the last act to a glorious pageant our trips culminated in the Capitol City. With apologies to Henry Van Dyke one might say, “Oh, Washington is a man’s town; there’s power in the air.” But such a feeling does not spring wholly frohi an impression of vast riches and resources. It rises from the knowledge that here is the symbol of what the shabby men of Valley Forge died to create. It is the symbol of what courageous miners, laborers, builders, craftsmen, teachers, and artists have sought to maintain. It is the duty of every citizen to know how his government is run. We departed from Washington feeling that our stay there had not been unprofitable. For some of us these brief visits have been the opening wedge to a life of travel. On the other hand many of our number will lead a sedentary existence.. But when the years have passed and we meet once more, not one of us will have forgotten our three trips together.

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January, 1933 7 Orpheus Speaks P ICTURE to yourself an immense stretch of beach gliding down to the ocean’s ed e from the dark jungle. The—long ago. An insignificant savage lolls on the yellow sand drawn to the sea much as thousands are today. He toys with an inverted turtle shell fitted with crude strings and cocks an attentive ear to the ancient forerunner of “A”. Even as the “twang” mingles with the ocean’s roar, the weird piping of a reed issues from the jungle and the beat of a tom-tom rises on the salty air. As the rhythm grows in volume, voices of swaying men join in a mighty chant. Orpheus is at his work. Behind our worthy ancestors marches a long chain of years. The Girard Band swings up the road, the same spirit alive in the lilt of the march. The ghost of that early piper hovers over a select group of those who havd inherited his own particular aptitude. If we must descend to the material, David Burkhart, Captain and Solo Cornetist and his followers, John Daniels, First Lieutenant and, Clarinetist, Edward Holmes carrying the Euphonium and Charles Gable, Solo Cornetist and Second Lieutenants march in the van of the long-dead musician. He takes note of Robert Leh, Solo Clarinetist and Supply Sergeant, and acknowl¬ edges the homage of John McCullough, Robert Morrison and Joseph Bove, who resigned from the Band in Senior-One to pursue other activities. Despite his age the old savage’s step is firm and quicker than ever as he keeps time and ' marches along amid the smiles and praises of young and old. But enough—the Band has passed away in the distance and the spirit of the Harp presides. He recalls to us our acquaintance who played with the turtle, shell on that lonely beach. Is it the tom-tom alive again? No! the throb of the drum is much as before, carrying the rhythm as ever, but under the hands of our genial President, Emmeth Land, student conductor and player of the drum and| traps. The eye of the Spirit rests on Harry Hippie, assistant leader and first vi¬ olinist. As the chord of music rises, William Davis, Frederick Seaborne, and Bradford Swonetz weave the background with clarinet, horn, and bass sections. Our Spirits are many, but perhaps they are not alone in their guidance. The large ro om is in darkness except for the path of moonlight that glides through the open glass doors letting in the scented garden air. The beams light up the features of a blind pianist whose fingers wander lightly over the ivory keys of his instrument. Strange and wonderful is his music; but alas! he is deaf to it. His compositions have been preserved for posterity, and Charles Kistler is the one rep¬ resentative of the class. But the stay of our visitors is for a short time only. They must hasten away. They pause to call the role of those who have followed the chant. The oldest spirit steps forward and reads the list unfalteringly: David Burkhart, President, John Thomas, Vice-President, Robert Thomas, Secretary, Wallis Allen, Librarian. He reaches the tenor section: Detweiler, Gabel, Kistler, Poole, Spat- z.er, Spinelli, Wambach, Blakeman, and Hippie. Then down through the bass:

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January, 1933 9 We Danced — E WERE first aware of it as if in the dark but, paradoxically, we were long in the dark about it. Spring found us—well, we averaged sixteen! We found spring and held it tethered for one short evening. There were daffodils; there were roses. Per¬ haps the verdance was imitation and the color unreal—we could not reproduce the flush of enjoyment that we secretly noticed on certain faces. We even forgot rhat music was being rendered so that we might step out: one, and two, and thi ee, and four! In the pleasant atmosphere there throbbed something of which we could not have our fill. We were happy. At the opening of the Christmas season we tried no such transition. We shut out the cold and crowded the hall to overflowing—with what must have been the Christmas spirit. Let us say that the decorations were but a means to an end which, we feel sure, we did achieve. We were, by this time, sold on this social idea and we carry the Christmas affair among our brightest memories. Again a curtain was drawn; again we found spring. It was apple blossom time. The soft glow of light, the delicacy of color—they lived, glowed, and breathed into our hearts a serene sort of joy. In this, our third success, we reached a climax. We found the decorations a logical topic for conversation— there was plenty of it. The feeling that we entertained for a time made us al¬ most ashamed—why, we were softening! Perhaps, after the manner of a senior, we made a last, flippant thrust at) decoration. Originality was what we termed it, and we were proud. The color¬ ful simplicity of the whole scheme attracted us. We danced in a world apart— beneath clothes-lines. The informality of the line, the careful disregard of color choice made us feel—shall I say “homely”? The tumble-down shanty has a place in our memory and, (may I quote the Girard News?) “at our dance it rained punch. In the playful spirit of the thing we dipped our drinks, from a rain barrel. We were no longer in the dark ; but alas! to all good things must come an end. The materialist in us rises as we make acknowledgement to Miss Smythe, Dr. Stewart, and Mr. Gares, without whose help—that’s trite yet we are very grate¬ ful. Remember, you Juniors who wish to start off right—their hats are in the ring!