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

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the window, but my hands were too cold and numb inside the badly worn pockets. I hadn't the courage to take them out. I passed joe Smalt's house. His newspaper lay a sodden pulp on the sagging step, and the picket fence leaned crazily inward. Yet between the. gusts of the wind I could hear a few notes of their piano. Six children and still a house of happiness. A feeling of remorse crept over meg I shifted my shoulders in an attempt to crawl deeper into my jacket. On past the book store with its jangling bell and musty odor. In spite of myself I could feel my pulse quicken I tried desperately to keep my eyes on the sidewalk, the gutter, the shining street. any- where, somewhere, yet I looked up. There it stood-our house: her house now, but still to me 'our house. The light in the living room was on. As I drew nearer, I noted the design of the curtains here and there through the steamed windows. I turned the corner of the street which ran by the other side of the house. Above the top of the dining room window sill I could see the water glass rims and a milk pitcher on the table. Supper was all ready, but nowhere could I see Her. Then in the kitchen a shadow fell on the curtain and two smaller ones joined the third-little Joe and Mary. I bit my lip hard. The figures separated, and through the first window two bright-eyed children could be seen impatiently and intently watching the third figure, whose only claim to being was a slim, girlish shadow on the curtain. ' The small girl with short curly hair sat nearer the window. I could no longer see her because of the steam on the windows until a sudden clearing away of the moisture on the window by a small hand brought the scene back again. I stepped into the shadows as she pressed her nose against the pane and peered out at the driving rain. The times had been hard about eight years ago and with bills piling up I was at my wits' end until I remembered a neighborly remark made in a great joke Cfor we all tried to laugh the difficulties of the times awayb. The words worth more dead than alive had permanently solved my problem, and I had disappeared. They could live at least decently now on my insurance, and the interest would see them through. Only being a living dead man wasn't easy. My heart ached to knock on the door and see their faces and have them come to me. I wanted to have a place to live, with my fa . . . A low mournful whistle of the 8:10 train rounding Little Bend absorbed my spirit. I would have to go again-for another year, perhaps more. The echoes of the whistle spread over the city and penetrated every corner, making the tide of self-control run low. They would check the box cars at 8:57, and to be safe I would have to catch on as it pulled out. The rain came down in a slow drizzle, and a second whistle rattled over the city. I walked back up the street, and the papers flapped in the gutters. Carol Nutile Form VI Fifty-nine

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RETURN The driving rain and cold wind tossed odd remnants of torn, week-old newspapers and sometimes pasted one against a garbage pail or building with a sharp slap. Feeble street lights glimmered weakly and only served to add a ghostly pallor to the glistening streets. About Hve o'clock the storm had broken, catching the throngs of home-goers unaware. Folded newspapers and briefcases served as momentary protection. Crowds shifted and waited impatiently in doorways and under eaves for already overflowing busses. The throngs thinned more quickly than customary, and as a heavy darkness settled over the city, lights darted on one by one from windows everywhere. - Once or twice someone leaning heavily into the wind passed by, clinging des- perately to his hat, with head bent low and coat tails snapping in the wind. The dampness was working up through the soles of my shoes and my jacket clung to my back as the wind pushed me down our street. Strange that I should call it that yet-after seven years it was still our street. Familiar landmarks became more numerous. McPhierson's meat market stood exactly as it had always been. At seven-thirty sharp, old Mac would pull down the door shade and go to his quarters in the rear. As I passed, I noted the one naked light bulb hanging faithfully in the same old place. Stopping momentarily, I peered into the interior-there was the cleaver jabbed into the accustomed notch, and sure enough the old chair with the rung still broken rested near the shelf. The quick tattoo of foot- steps startled me to reality, and I moved quickly on my way. A woman passed me carrying heavy bundles which she shifted in her arms to relieve the weight. My heart leaped into my throat only to fall again in disappointment. I thought for a moment it might be she, but . . . Half carried by the wind she darted up the steps of a house down the street, and as I passed, I saw figures of small children scurrying by the window. My attention was quickly drawn to the other side of the street, where a sudden darkening of the barber shop gave evidence of its closing. With the slam of a door, rattle of keys, and quick steps of someone hurrying, I knew Frank had left. I could trace in my mind's eye every step he would take to his house with his dark-haired wife and two daughters-they must be big now-Mary with her dark eyes and little Louise, sad little Louise. A cardboard box drummed by me and took a sudden lurch, landing against a fence, only to stop for a moment and then with a jerk, be whisked away down the glis- tening street. A sudden blast of wind sent splashing rain against my face and neck, and I could feel small droplets gather momentum and come coursing down my scalp only to scurry past my collar and down my soaking back. Although I was thoroughly wet by now, I couldn't turn back until I reached my destination. I considered the absurdity of it all-battling all the way with the solitary purpose of turning back. At least once a year Cifl could make ith I would walk this same street. For seven years I had done it-seven times in seven years. Well, I had managed to keep it up so far. With a shift ofthe wind I had to press forward past the shoe repair shop with- yes, there old Dan sat, hunched and pale over some shoe or other. I wanted to tap on Fifty-eigb!

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Sixty CIRRUS A wandering cirrus column, long and narrow, cuts a path across the deep blue sky, Making a swath of blue and white as it travels past, No ugly thing of man, this creation of God, No paint of prefabricated walls, Instead a freshness all its own, A sample of God's magnificent art. Uninfluenced by weather men or their maps, its celestial beauty follows the wind, Heading what yet is to come. Fluffy cumulus may follow, or angry growling nimbus may chase it on, scowling, gloomy stratus it may even head- But whatever may follow is soon forgotten as Shedding its divine beauty and unheralded by man or beast, It encroaches upon the sky's blue domain, going only God knows where. No plans were made, no architects hired, yet Even so, its sublime but simple beauty Excels all that man has ever done, is doing, or ever will. Fred Mansfield Form V CRAS DICIS SEMPER - MARCUS VALERIUS MARTIALIS iV.58l Tomorrow, always tomorrow you say, you will live. Tell me, when comes that tomorrow of yours? How far off is that tomorrow? Where is it? And on what account do you seek it? Surely it lies not hidden among the Parthians or the Armenians? Now tomorrow holds as many years as Priam or Nestor. Tell me, for what price can that tomorrow be bought? Will you live tomorrow? It is late now to live today. He who is wise, Postponer, lived yesterday. Translation by Emily Perrins Form VI