Hamden Hall Country Day School - Perennial Pine Yearbook (New Haven, CT)

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fl CASES 2869 AND 2870 . There are many kinds of dogs: large, small, fat, thing black, white. My dogs, however, are in a class of their own. They are psychological cases. My small black cocker spaniel, Curly, knows a great many things unknown to most people. For instance, did you know that tables bite, chairs pounce on you, doors jump at you, and stoves, the most ferocious of all, will eat you up if given a chance? Therefore, these objects must be approached with great caution. With these facts in mind, Curly sneaks by chairs and tables in a wide arc and dashes madly through doors. In this way these formidable forces have no chance to exer- cise their terrible powers. The only really safe place in the house is, oddly enough, under a bed. My Airedale, Patsy, on the other hand, is an extrovert with a persecution complex. She is ignorant of the above-mentioned forces and so wanders blissfully unafraid among the terrifying maze of tables, chairs, stoves, and doors. However, if you should happen to reproach her with some unkind word, she immediately lowers her head, rolls her soulful brown eyes mournfully, and droops sadly out of the room. A few minutes later she droops back into the room, morosely puts her paw in your lap, and gives you what is known as a uhangdog look. This makes you feel like an unspeakable cad, so you pat her head gently, mutter, There! There! , and apologize profusely for hurting her feelings. She then forces herself to assume a cheerful air and wanders off, a martyr. One of the most amazing aspects of these animals is the fact that small, timorous Curly comes forth the victor of every fray, while big, fearless Patsy cowers on the floor in abject defeat. As a result of this relationship with my dogs, I feel well qualified to become a canine psychiatrist, always ready to straighten out the troubles and complexes of Man's Best Friend. Emily Perrins Form VI SAVED BY AN ARMY HELMET It happened one spring day when I was about eight years old. My brother had planned to go on a hike with his army. The army consisted of five boys and one girl. Bill was the oldest and my brother was next to the oldest. I went along as nurse. We were taking our lunch, expecting to stay all day. We got to our destination about 10:00, then played around until lunch time, ate, and played some more. It was about 2:30. My brother was on the ledge above me which was all of six feet high. Bill was shooting peas at him. He tripped and fell to the ground with a thud. For a few seconds he lay very still. To our bewilderment he sat up and began to cry. We were so glad he was alive. We took him home, and my mother took him to the doctor. The doctor said if he hadn't had a helmet on, he would be dead. He got a terrific gash over his left eye. I think I am quite lucky to have a brother alive. Don't you? Nancy MacKinster Form I Forty-ive

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DYING EMBERS The last flame of our campfire slowly dies, And now the embers on the blackened earth Gleam scarlet here and there through sifting ash And like the twinkling lights of some small town, Seen from afar across the bay at night, Flash on and off and on again 'till day, And like the city lights,at first grey streaks Of coming dawn, the embers one by one Cease glowing-abruptly gone-and as they die, Faint wisps of smoke float up into the air Like mournful souls arising from the dead. Charlotte Freeman Form VI This poem received honorable mention in the National High School Poetry Anthology. THE LITTLE CHAPEL 'Twas only a little chapel, Lost And Was on a country road, the rectory by its side a humble, small abode. The The And wooden pews were hard and rough, altar, immaculately plain, each window let the sunlight Filter through its simple stain. The vigil lights winked on and offg The sunlight brightly shone, Not a thing was stirring, yet, I knew I was not alone. 'Twas only a country chapel- Poor, but worth more in grace Than the richest of all churches And cathedrals any place. Russell Doolittle - Form V This poem has been published in the anthology of the National High School Poetry Association. Forty-four

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THE MISNOMER Two nights ago while I was reading a book, the telephone rang. Being quite interested in the story, I continued to read, hoping that someone else would answer it. I guess everyone in the house had the same idea, for it was still ringing and was beginning to acquire that plaintive quality that telephones get when no one answers them. Reluctantly I laid the book aside, got up, strode to the phone, picked up the receiver, and brusquely said, Hello? The deep, male voice at the other end of the wire asked, Is Mr. Roche at home? Abandoning the brusque tone I had hitherto employed, I replied that he was not. Will you please take a message, Mn. Roche? Too embarrassed to explain, I slumped back into the chair near the telephone stand and took the message. While I was doing this, the room seemed to grow red, quite possibly from the red glare which assuredly had flooded my face. Well, thank you, Mn. Roche. Again that odious misnomer! I was too weak to get out of the chair. Oh, why doesn't my voice get deeper? Tom Roche Form IV I WON'T When exams come up, some people get all flustered, I won't. They walk into the testing room with knees as weak as custard, I won't. They review for Weeks and weeks ahead, The day before they stay in bed, I won't. They get so nervous that they just can't talk, I won't. They move dejectedly up the walk, I won't. And then they think it's quite a cinch, They take the test without a Hinch, l won't. They think of it always after that day! I won't. They seem to have thrown all their hope away, I won't. This group seems to make up most of the class, You know the type-they always pass, I won't. Richard Powelson Form VI F 0 nfyrrix