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

Page 15 text:

ALICE FALKOWSKY, 4 I HAVE no privacy at home. The Brooklyn Dodgers have been living with us season in and season out. Now that my eleven year old brother cannot monopolize the radio with their thrilling exploits, I am still haunted by a smiling Dolf Ca:rni1li, a frowning Freddy Fitzsimmons, a leg of Arky Vaughan, or the bat Pete Reiser uses for luck, pasted crookedly but with a loving touch where you least expect to find them. Scattered in the book- case, and on other pieces of furniture Cuntil my mother clears them outl, are old scribbled boxscores with slightly dilapidated edges. He is the first one and the last one to read the sports page. Not even a moth would be tempted after he finishes with it. These articles and pictures which he tears out are carefully trimmed and are glued in a monster-size scrapbook. Only his best of pals are permitted the privilege of seeing this treasure. Every third word in his vocabulary is Dodgers . We don't eat chicken salad any more but Dodgers A La Mode salad. He can become a vicious person if anyone dares to say a single word against his beloved team. Nor is this all. There is still the radio over which he has supreme authority. Captain Midnight, Crime Doctor, The Shadow, Dark Destiny, flavored with lack Benny and Fred Allen, are my brother's perferences in the choice of radio programs. A loyal member of Captain Midnight's Secret Squadron , he will not divulge any decoded message unless he knows that you are a friend of Captain Midnight, too. He asks for Grape- nuts , instead of making his customary plea for Iello , perhaps because lack Benny's products have been changed. The modern generation prefers bullet-proof vests to fairies. Buck Rogers and Wilma have displaced Prince Charming and the Sleeping Beauty, the radio is now a substitute for mother's piano rendition of The Old Oaken Bucket. The modern generation also seems to be air-minded. As I write this, his homemade model airplane zigzags through the air while I frantically move my head to the other side. Harold, Nathan is waiting for you outside. He says you promised to trade him Superman comics for Batman comics. Uh huh, Mom, l'm coming. My brother takes his streamlined glider, which has now lost its strength and has fallen on the floor, and struts out, turning the propeller of the plane with his finger. He thinks he's Howard Hughes, Superman and Pee Wee Reese, com- bined, but to me he's just my kid brother. 11

Page 14 text:

long orange bodies through the water, pointed tails whipping this Way and that, woe to the slow-witted ones who neglect to bow and scrape before their masters. Nonetheless, romance flourishes in this marine community in the char- acters of the kissing gouramis. Behind a projecting leaf or jutting stone these clandestine lovers may be spied at their maritime billing and cooing. Occasionally, one will entertain the other by standing on his head, pink- and-white body rigidly vertical. Mouth first, he hops about on the gravel bottom. Love does queer things to fish, as may well be seen. For intricate detail in design, our tetis furnishes the best example. From stem to stern, he looks like a, piece of white Chantilly lace behind a pane of polished glass. Little loops, intricately crocheted rosettes, and all as fine as a cobweb, can be seen within his body. Squarely in the middle is a small black beauty patch, looking much like a misplaced eye. Our smaller tank, with approximately a twenty-five gallon capacity, is the kindergarten division. Here the younger fry gambol in childish inno- cence, until they attain a size that is too big a morsel for a larger neigh- bor to swallow. Baby mollies, minute platys, and other tiny nondescripts play hide and seek among the plants. Here, too, are those freaks of nature, two baby white sword-tails, who receive more cherishing and pam- pering than society debutantes. They are far too rare to be treated as any other than the bluest of blue bloods. But the fish whose beauty is proclaimed far and wide, and whose wicked temper is equally well known, is our four-inch fighting fish, kept in a small, special tank where he and his harem are luxuriously wined and dined. If another male fish were to be put into the same tank, a fight to the death would ensue, but as it is, our specimen is only reasonbly nasty. This male fish is startingly beautiful. At the end of a shimmering red and blue body, a long plumy tail of rich purple velvet fans gracefully back and forth. As he moves majestically through the water, writhing pattems of color play upon his whole body. He is noticeably hostile to one of his less-gorgeous helpmates, but the other seems to have him well under her fin. While Mrs. Fighting Fish is off with the other ladies indulging in a little nautical bridge party and gossip, the mere male is at home, gently, with infinite patience, conveying one by one a pile of microscopic eggs to a cushiony layer of bubbles in which they are cradled. The lady of the house may well be pleased with her model husband. Almost two hundred fish, flashing their loveliness against a background of thick green plants-a small portion of the Sargasso Sea framed in glass for my exclusive appreciation. Let those who will, travel a thousand miles to see a mass of coral and seaweed through a glass-bottomed boat, and gape fleetingly at creatures about whom they know nothing. I am content to chuckle at the antics of fish who are as familiar to me as old friends, to enjoy a marine paradise in miniature-as I stretch out comfortably on the couch dangling a wriggling green worm before the eager eyes of a hungry catfish. 10

Page 16 text:

,Q-X! I 6 W- Who Crank ' lesser! Be Yo lnlsgvxx X fav!! GLORIA SHAPIRO, 6 NO one knew how it got there. Some people were under the impression that Dubrow had swallowed frogs' eggs which had hatched in the course of time. Others supposed that a tadpole had managed to slip down while Dubrow was taking water from a well. One thing was certain. He had a full-grown frog down there that acted as if it had become a perm- anent tenant. Doctors tried many cures, but all the remedies had the same result-failure. And to what tortures the poor man had been subjected! They flung him upside down and fished down his throat with a hook and fly for bait, but that frog was clever, he did not encourage them with a single nibble. Dubrow worried more and more about the frog. I-le would not have minded it so much if the intruder had kept still. Life, however, became com- plicated at times. Dubrow was in love with a sweet country lass who professed a liking for him. He decided to make her a partner in his firm and a sharer of his troubles by requesting her dainty hand in marriage. The night arrived on which Dubrow returned to his home town to re- ceive the answer of his beloved. All the way there he thought of the lovely Isabelle and reflected nervously on his appearance. Dubrow had not seen his darling since his late teens, but remembered her as a charm- ing and intelligent young lady. Before Dubrow had left the town to be a success in his uncle's factory, Isabelle and he had been practically engaged. And now he was returning to claim her. At last he was coming up the walk. Isabelle looked most alluring as she reclined in the garden hammock awaiting her lover. Dubrow was pro- foundly and blissfully happy to be back at the side of this dainty creature. All his troubles seemed to recede. Humbly he knelt. Suddenly, he was reminded that he and his darling were not entirely alone. There was a violent tug somewhere in the region of his lungs. Dearest, said he, may I some day hope to-- Croak -sang a voice which had suddenly come to life. Isabelle jumped up. Goodness, what was that? she asked. Er-um, that is nothing, said Dubrow, abashed. Croak, croak, came the familiar voice. To cover the growing discomfort of the situation, Isabelle poured some tea for herself and the embarrassed young man. Dubrow took his very hot tea and drank it viciously, madly, with an I2