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

Page 8 text:

WAYS OF A MARINER Marguerite crocheted the last loops of her blue blouse. Afterwards she walked to the little dressmaker shop in La Rue Caillou and selected the tiny pearls and sequins which she would sew on it. lt was to be her first gala with Bill, and she knew this evening was to be something special in her life. The house was quiet except for the sudden squeals of delight coming from her younger soeur and frere, little Louise and Michel. Soon Marguerite was at the door greeting Bill. He looked taller and even more handsome in his Navy uniform and she felt so very fortunate to have a friend like Bill. I feel rather different tonight, she said. He smiled-that guileless smile that would flutter many a girl's heart. Monsieur Luchon looked up from his iournal at the young sailor with whom he had become well acquainted. He no longer thought it necessary to make small talk with Bill. Bill broke the silence suggesting that they take une promenade in the evening air. Bill and Marguerite started walking slowly hand in 'hand under the poplar trees of the Left Bank of the Seine. There's something about Paris, Bill said. lt's such a lovely place to take a walk. Here and there a star winked. Some thousand miles away on a brisk corner of Central Park West a letter was dropped into a mailbox. The letter was to William Tyler, cfo U.S. Navy, Paris, France. Only the faint echoes of La Vie En Rose could be heard rippling across the water from a sidewalk cafe of the Right Bank where people danced and sipped old rich wines every night. The moon had risen, and glistened across the Seine. Every now and then the moonlight got caught in the facets of Marguerite's little diamond and gave off a brilliant sparkle. About a half hour had passed since Bill had slipped it on her slim finger. They started walking home. l'm afraid Papa may say we should wait a little longer, Marguerite said. Occasionally an old lady or a tired old fisherman laden with his catch would pass by, staring at Marguerite and Bill. Marguerite and Bill laughed gaily as they continued along the broad quay. Across a low-lying old stone bridge a flower girl was begging the promenaders to buy her flowers. Bill went across and brought back two boutonnieres of violets. He put one in Marguerite's blonde hair and told her that he would give the other to her mother. The signals sounded in the harbor, and Marguerite felt a wave of fear go through her. She realized that in a few hours she and Bill would be separated by the vastness of an ocean. Maman et Papa seemed unaccountably calm at breakfast, and when Bill called, Madame Luchon coaxed him to partake of a second cup of cafe'au lait and some crisp buttery croissants. The anchor was raised and Marguerite stood immobile still on the pier.- The great U.S. ship was soon lost in the mist. The fog horns blew mournfully. ll' Ill ll! if ll! The winds were strong and blustery and the American sailors on the top deck were busy with the tasks essential to a safe landing. Bill stopped a moment and there was the Statue of Liberty saluting and the Empire State Building among her tall friends, all in proud erectness. The ship was steady and well-anchored now. He looked down among the crowds of people waiting on the pier-mothers, fathers, sisters, and sweet- hearts-all hurried out of their beds to meet some beloved person-each wearing an anxious expression and seeking with concern. Suddenly a voice called, Bill, Bill-over here . . . Welcome home! So she hadn't forgotten him! How long had it been since her letters had stopped coming? But he never could forget her voice . . . Maria's enchanting black hair was caught in the high harbor breeze, and she kept on calling to him until their eyes met. Bill smiled and waved, and climbed down the side of the ship to greet her. JANICE NANTON, 7

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Brotherhood Week, 1953 Dear girls of the classes of 1953, , You leave us during a year which, even in these early days of Febru- ary when l write this note to you to meet the printer's deadline, gives promise of being a fateful one for us all. Already 1953 has become im- portant as the year of the inauguration of President Eisenhower, as the three hundredth anniversary of the founding of New York City, and as the seventy-fifth anniversary of the birth of Girls High School. Now, during Brotherhood Week, 1953, we ioin with all the other schools in our city in the new homeroom ritual of pledging allegiance to our flag and singing the fourth stanza of America. Once you have departed from our halls, you will not have such fre- quent occasionsio pgarticipate ingpatriotic recitcgiongancl song. We hope, howgfeqthg you will not need daily reminders of your duties as citizens of our country and as believers in the divine power guarding us all. We trust that for the rest of your lives you will demonstrate by your actions that you are conscientious citizens of America and ardent followers of the abiding values. A survey of the American Scene which you have selected as the theme of your yearbook should convince you more and more as the years pass how our country through frequent trials and renewed efforts has struggled inlationalifloriginslcan, rssi wt-f'dv,l Qf - :Girls stcr t t ,-,c- 95 GLY? 59 r l out school, we ,gkgt ZV, ,i,: 1 V-,, 1 g'., 1 , sssls t rrci -is tsrsi -z'-sz' hlsrztlr 'h-s'cv, rstrsl ' svdlihs,f21'fssf'0f1G'et,,1re9f4'd of all l l Yours with all good wishes, Hortense H. Levisohn

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S+aYlH c,'f+fl.g TOWARD THESE SHORES As l think back about two or three years ago, in my mind appears a medium-sized former American warship, the Gen. Taylor, rededicated to the good service of bringing European refugees toward these shores. It is the eleventh day of the iourney, and a curious thirteen-year-old girl is awaiting the arrival. She wanted to stay up on deck through the night, for she feared she would miss something very great, if she were not on hand to glimpse the first view of this strange, unknown land. But she was sent down to the cabin by her parents. Now she is lying still, with open eyes and ears, listening to the even rocking of the ship. What is America like? The question seems not only to rest on her mind, but to occupy the whole stateroom. She must discover the answer. Quietly she dresses and steals out of the cabin. She runs up the steep narrow iron stairs, opens the door to the deck, and-stops . . . She cannot move, for there it is: ln the grey darkness she sees a huge fortress with silhouetted towers and terraces. The magic illusion is clarified by thousands of lights which become visible as the ship approaches the harbor and the fort or castle of her imagination dissolves into the peaceful skyscrapers of the metropolis, which is New York. Well, how do you like our city? inquires a white-clad ship's cook as he gives me a broad smile. Then, noticing the astonished look on my face, he thinks l do not understand English, smiles once more, and goes below. ALLA MAIKOWSKY, 8