Girls High School of Brooklyn - Blue and Gold Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

Page 16 text:

- -- Fourteen Felled Tree HIS tree, this tree, whose eager hands Were curving up against the sky To catch the swoop of beauty bound In April flaming, swift and high, Has had the emerald notes cast out Of its deep throat and the song-begun., And lies, a broken thing., against The smoky moving of the air, Its lips too mute for bitter moan, Its heart too still to care, to care- How can you know who are not tree, Who are not sister to the wind, Who are not mother to a bird, The sorrow of a body pinned Within a cerement of frost, The passionate negation and The breaking of the burning wings- Almost its opal tongue had thrown Into the day, a joyous word, But it was cruelly refused, Like a dropped star, a stifled bird, A crystal heritage, its all. Nearly within the tremulous hour, It was deprived of the dream, again, It was refused its heart's flower .... But if you had said to the cruel night That this was nothing-a tree denied Its April right, and beauty's spears And gloryis wounds, you lied you lied' Anna Elizabeth Bennett, June, 1931

Page 15 text:

Then he explained-our new house had a fence! This impressed us tremendously. Richford houses didn't have fences! It also made things simpler, for it would be much easier to pick our house out quickly. I didn't keep the secret. When my friend refused to believe some of my fantastic tales about New York, I blurted it out to prove my point. I even added that we were going simply because she was so mean to me, and furthermore, that she would never receive any presents from me. She was completely suppressed, and even tearfully begged my mother to stay, promising to mend her ways. The long-awaited day finally arrived, and we boarded the train with no other mishap than my brother's fall into a puddle and the consequent temporary ruin of a previously immaculate white suit. We entered New York through a dirty, squalid, section of the city, which certainly did not measure up to my fantastic expectations. Perhaps the only reason that the shattering of all my visions did not leave me un- happy was that things were so diEerent that they kept me absorbed. The bedding, hanging out of windows to air, the children in the streets, the pushcarts, and the crowds, were so astounding to me that my eyes seemed too small. My father, because it was convenient, and to oblige me, took us to our new home by the elevated railway. I never go around a curve on one to this day, without remembering that first ride, when I measured the distance to every housetop. . Now, although I have learned that little girls here don't all ride ponies, and can't all have red ribbons, indeed, don't even want glassesg although I know that the buildings are not gold, and the people are not as wealthy in money as they might wish, although I've changed these dreams for others, I still believe that New York is, at heart, a fairyland. Barbara Tripp, January, 1933. SYMBOL Pm past the age to romp and run, I have to live with little fung But still I have as wish and hope: A rainbow for my skipping rope. Aldona Mikolainis, June, 1931. Thirteen

Page 17 text:

The Cruise of the Artemis HERE is no state so admirable as the unconscious one: poets, oblivious to all save the Muse, are, undoubtedly, thereg musicians, dancers, painters, all, the artists, the blessed of God, have become insensitive to reality as personified in frigidity, frivolity, and friction. This aesthetic torpor is produced, we are told, by the semi-conscious, by mystic communi- cation with a realm forbidden, and justly so, to any individual who might dare call a spade a spade. How much more effective it is to suggest the spade, in the inimitable manner of the Imagists, thus: Deeper Deeper Deeper Into the stony ground- Earth-stained, storm-battered, iron-hearted- Deeper Deeper Deeper Into the worm-souled earth- That is a spade. And it is quite evident that nothing half so eloquent could have been written by the stolid brotherhood who have seen spades. Thus, unawareness lifts one above earthly things and deposits one on a lofty eminence from which one may clutch at halos, wings, and other heavenly trappings. Naturally the unconscious are small in number and cherish this sign of individuality with all the fervor of the artistic tem- perament. Unfortunately a strange thing is happening. Persons who are neither artists nor blessed of God have become possessed of the power of unconsciousness, whereas the artists and the blessed of God have be- come increasingly aware of their position. The former are, quite surpris- ingly, simple beings, entirely brainless and utterly charming. Fifteen