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

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THE NEWSPAPER BOY With few exceptions, every boy and girl reaches a period in his youthful life when he wants to work at a part-time job. I wasn't one of the exceptions, my first sight into the great wide world came when I made a start toward being a newspaper tycoon by becoming a news carrier. We moved into a' small village for the summer. I felt that I wanted to get a job. The boy next door was going away and giving up his newspaper route. After much discussion my parents decided to humor me and let me have it. We had been living in the village only three days, I didn't know the name of the street two blocks away, not to mention the whole village. At the age of fourteen little things like that didn't bother me. I thought of a bike I had in mind and of having my own spending money. Little did I know. Saturday night the boy next door brought over the paper list. I asked him what time we would start in the morning. He told me that it wou1dn't be we, it would be I, because he was leaving that night with his family for their vacation. I told my father nothing of this, hoping everything would be all right. The bike didn't look quite so near. Three o'clock Sunday morning I began, or I should say, tried to begin. When I arrived at the corner to pick up the papers, I stood quite still for a minute looking at the papers. It looked as if there were enough papers for the entire state. I then stood close to the street light and looked over my address list, which was written in pencil on yellow paper. After I had walked six blocks and delivered the grand total of six papers, I came upon a house which I knew was supposed to get a paper. just as I was on the steps of the house, I heard a deep-throated growl. I saw out of the corner of my eye in the semi-darkness a dog which looked as large as a lion. I dropped the papers and fled. This was too much, the bike looked quite small at this point. I returned home, woke up my father and told him my long tale of woe. He agreed to help me deliver the rest of my papers. Already I felt better. Father knew twice as many streets in the village as I did, maybe he knew more than twice the number I knew. QThis turned out to be rightg father knew five streets.J Dawn by this time was almost ready to greet the world for another day. The great red eye of the sun began to peep out from his bed in the earth. When we returned to the house of the huge dog, we discovered the dog was quite lame, nearly blind, and had no teeth. I tried to tell my father it must have been another dog that had growled at me. Father just stared ahead. At the next house I knocked over a bottle of milk. Father had done a Hip on a roller-skate some child had left in front of a house. Father calmly proceededg to be truthful, he was so calm that I was nervousg he had a strange glint in his eyes. For the rest of the summer I didnlt mind pulling weeds from the garden to earn the bicycle. At least one could see them, and there were no dogs running through the garden. Frank Backos Form VI Fifty .

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CRABS My, how dull a crab's life must be, especially in the winter time when there isn't even anybody to pinch. In the summer time if he is a big crab, all he can do is go around and frighten ladiesg and if he is a small crab, all he can do is go around-that is, until he gets picked up by some nature for mealh lover and is put in with a lot of bigger crabs where he gets very much bruised. After some time he is dumped, with all the other crabs, into a kettle of boiling water and becomes somebody's meal. For a growing crab life must be extremely tiresome, there being nothing to do but play hide-and-seek with the fishes and pinch sand worms. CWhether these worms bite back and whether their bite is poisonous still remains a mystery to us.b A crab's diet must become terribly monotonous-sea-weed sandwiches and water, with the occasional rare treat of discarded fish bait and water snakes. Goodness, how boring a crab's life must be- Living all day on the Hoot of the sea, Living all day in salt water, not fizz. Oh, how boring a crab's life sure is. Nothing to do but to sit and to dream, Nothing to write-no, not even a theme! Not a use do they have for saws or for axesg Not a day do they worry about income taxes! Such is a crab's life, and you must agree How awfully boring a life it must be. Freeman Sleeper Form III THE STORY OF AN ANT This is the story of Caesar, an ant, as told by Caesar himself. My full name is Caesar Antipode. I am three months old and am a native son of New Haven. My father was born in the White House in Washington and came to New Haven in a loaf of bread. My life is a very miserable one, especially with the new age of science. All you humans are doing is inventing new poisonous liquids and powders and then improving upon them with your D.D.T. When I escape your poisons, someone is trying to step on me or someone is pouring hot water down my back. I can't see what I do to you humans except once in a while to take a little food from your pantry or crawl down your back. But even if I do take some food, I still leave plenty for you. Also please tell me what pleasure you get out of knocking down my house. I spend days carrying rocks to build up an entrance, and then you knock it down. That's why my life is so miserable. If I act a little harsh sometimes, I'm just paying you back for what you do to me. . Dick Narhman Form IV Forty-nine

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THE CIRCUS Step right up, folks, to the greatest show on earth. In this tent we have the super colossal woman of the air, Madame Zubrichi, guaranteed to take your breath away or your money refunded Only one thin dime to witness her daring skill! The voice of the circus barker rang through the crowdg and crowd there was, for this was none other than the famous Ringtail Brothers Circus, a circus no one could afford to miss. The barker took up the chant again. We left the crowd and entered the main office. Hi, called the sixteen-year-old manager of this stupendous production. He glanced at his watch. You'd better hurry, he said. Your act is next. Coming out of the tent, we bumped into Mr. Haskins, the adult director of this third annual playground circus. He wished us luck. We young performers entered the big top. A hush spread over the audience. Ladies and gentlemen, announced the ringmaster. We are lucky enough to have here four daring girls on the trapeze. They will do an aerial ballet. Here they are! There was our cue. The band struck up a tune and we marched in. Our big day at last! After many weeks of practice under the patient direction of Mr Haskins we were at last to make our debut in the renowned circus. Our ballet was a short run of graceful feats on the trapeze. It took no skill to perform on them, but to us it seemed the hardest thing in the world to do. The audience liked 'it, though, for as we walked out, the applause rose. Most of us stayed andwatched the rest of the acts. The lion act was wonderful. . After the Grand Finale, we changed the costumes. This, our circus, had been a success. By the way, if you are ever in Madison, Wisconsin, stop by Tenney Park and take a look at those lions. Of course, you will find them in the form of boys playing baseball. Maybe Madame,Zubrichi will be slamming out a home run for them, but it still has the circus atmosphere. jill Sundgaard , Form II THE CYCLE The street is throbbing with the warmth and ardor of life. Spring's messenger 7 the Wind, is leading the trees, gaily garbed in inverted green crinolines, in a boister- ous, turbulent dance. Sunlight is playing hopscotch on the roof-tops and over the lilacs and the dogwood. And in the sky plump, well-fed clouds sail smugly by with their supercilious glances at a world., ofjsuch -unrestrained passions and youth. The street has sunk into the depth of the lavender gloom. Beneath the steady patter of the soft rain, the hushed whispers of the gossiping trees can be heard. The wet pavements gleam darkly while here and there they are flooded in a pool of golden light from a window or an open door. Eagerly the rich, brown loam drinks of the summer rain, and the tiny blades of grass revel in their cool bath. The world is drenched with a drowsy calm and tranquility. The street is gaudily arrayed in the various hues of Autumn. The sky is a more brilliant blue, the trees more resplendent in vivid reds and golds. And yet in sharp contrast there are the browns of dead leaves, the black of bare limbs, the harsh rasp of rustling leaves. The world is the feeble pretense of a dying man. The street sleeps in its bed of snow under a silver coverlet of moonlight. Wearily the dark trees droop their slender necks with their heavy necklaces of crushed diamonds. It is a Winter world of unbroken silver and black-the silver of snow and stars and moon, the black of night and cold and weariness. Joy Sundgaard Form VI Fifty-one