Haverford College - Record Yearbook (Haverford, PA)

Page 31 text:

Following behind, carrying a load equally as heavy, comes Jack Lester. On his stalwart shoulders lie an infinite number of books. Slowly, he mixes these books in with the truths and the islond that is formed begins to toke on shape and meaning. While this creation is being brought to comple- tion, on the outskirts of the group dance two vaporous sprites, John Ashmead and Ken Wood- roofe. Although it is almost impossible to see them, their work of removing the noxious vapours stirred up by the island building is considerable. Finally, the foundation has been laid. The one- time miasma is now ready for its Eternal Use. A final call comes from the trumpet, and the par- ticipants retreat behind various bushes and up various trees to watch the blooming that is to follow. Ralph Sargent appears on the island, play- ing a fife, dancing lithely: now swirling, now curling, smiling between the notes of his inviting song. Behind him comes the horde; a brawling, screaming, tumbling moss of bpbes: pink-cheeked, sparkle-eyed, dressed in swaddling clothing. Some pause, looking with wonder at the surroundings, picking at every leaf, or sniffing every swamp; others ' plod on steadily, looking at neither side, their faces dumb. Some wander far from the lead of the merrie fifer; others stick close behind him, even clutching onto him for reassurance. All are fresh, most are young. This is their adventure. Once they ore on the island, with a flourish and final vibrato, the fifer departs steathily from the troop, joining the other gnomes behind the trees to see what the children will do with their new- found toy. First to start work and first to finish is Dick Smith. Without even adjusting his swaddling cloth- ing, Dick prys up the truths and books nearest at hand and builds a neat white house with a picket fence and fine white smoke puffing from the chimney. Once through, he ignores the labors of the others and sits in the doorway of his perfectly constructed bungalow with a stock of The Satur- day Evening Posts, checking through the stories for possible material. Almost OS quick is John Wallace, but unlike Dick, John never really gets through with his job of construction. Within minutes he fashions, using many books but few truths, a massive cord- filing system, complete with folders, cross-filing, and annual index. Once the major task is complete, the work really begins, because then the faults, the incompleteness, the failings that constantly spring up in the filing system con be reworked and re- fashioned, making subtle changes that may seem inconsequential to the casual observer, but which are of real importance to the system itself.

Page 30 text:

ENGLISH The darkling sun hangs limply in the torrid, fever-encrusted atmosphere. From the miasmal wastes, heavy with mold, pours o stench of rotting, laden with a fine tang of faintly scented urine. The morass extends both forward and backward through the eons, untouched by any real light. Trees, twisted by cancerous growths of all sizes and types, hang heavy with humid nightbiue fruit. Grey-white mist pervades all. The dark is one of gaseous putridity with murky humours lurking around every branch, moss, crawler, bush, or bog. And then, lightly and quietly, two shadowy figures dance onto the scene, clod scantily but tastefully in the glowing white of Eternal Dawn. These two gnomes, Edgar Rose and Alfred Satter- thwaite, carry in their hands brightly glowing, spark-showering fire-brands. No time is wasted. One touches his ember to the eye of the sun, transforming the scene as the Sun begins to fling his flaring beams. The other dances blithely, merrily, touching his spark to the throngs of stars, giving a richer, deeper hue to the once dark bog. The gnomes finally come together to ignite the moon to end their pas de deux This is the signal for the third gnome, Frank Quinn, carrying the Trumpet of Trumpets, to spring on the scene. After skipping lightly over a mouldy root here, a treacherous bog there, he pauses in a pose and poses in a pause, applies the golden trumpet to his lips, and sounds a call of triumph into the newly lighted wilderness. Quickly, Gerhard Friednch pirouettes in. This elf carries a transparent bag bulging with fireflies, and with a sweep of the wrist, he flings open the satchel and, as he spins, tosses myriads of the bugs both heavenward and groundward. When this is done, the trumpeteer again sends forth a clarion call, and two others appear, slowly, painfully burdened. Max Bluestone lopes on, bear- ing a monstrous green sack on his right shoulder. Patiently, he swings the bag to the ground, and pours into one of the bogs the contents. A veritable cornucopia of truths flow out; some shining and beautiful, others bent and scraggly, a few quite old and hoary. The first truths sink into the miasmal wastes, disappearing immediately from sight, but the truths ore so plentiful that those poured on top gradually stay on the surface to form the beginnings of an island. Tu ' entv-six

Page 32 text:

Feeling that many hands make large the work, Bob Price, Larry Ferguson, and Jim Francis pool their talents into the building of one modest edi- fice. With a real spirit of criticism, two of them often stand bock and watch the efforts of the other. When Bob is working, the structure tends to resemble a lofty white mansion, replete with lofty pillars around the front and sides, complete with a wide cascading lawn of purest green. Larry mumbles dislike for this gaudy display, and with a heavy book destroys all the columns and re- places them with a harder New England front, complete with sprinkled snow on the lawn. Jim vociferously stands back and applauds the efforts of oil. The pile of debris resulting from the vacilla- tions of will tends to build up an insurmountable wall of discarded refuse around these three, and presently they are hidden totally from the view of gnomes and cherubs alike. Striking in contrast is the handiwork of John Schott. Using a minimum of truths, he stands somewhat off from the throng and quickly fashions a sheaf of paper, a typewriter, and a printing press. First, using these new-made tools, he types up long, arduous, finely printed papers. Then he turns to his soulmates and, pulling up his swaddling clothing, begins to read his manuscripts. Many of the cherubs stop their work to listen, smiling and nodding their heads, returning to their work only when John goes back to typing up another sheaf. Tony Cowen builds an impressive structure that changes consistently as it grows. First it looks like a dusty tome, then a Renoir painting, then a woman lightly clad in a smile, and finally a castle. It is grand and magnificent panorama, but un- fortunately he garnered most of his material from off the island, so mixed with all the books and truths are not a few palm fronds, tree roots, and a wriggling salamander. The building, conse- quently, IS rather unsteady, and no sooner does Tony bolster up one corner than another begins to droop. Also constructing a fantastic edifice is Tony Bing. In moments, this cherub has built, using all the filmy truths, a spiderweb of beams and cross- beams flung skyward that threaten to obscure or even capture the sun. The work could go faster, but with a sly smile, Tony pauses every now and then to fashion a dart from a gossamer truth and secretly fling it at the protruding parts of any nearby tad. Bob Leeds has considerable trouble with his work. As soon as he gets some sort of foundation laid, he disappears from the island for a long interval, reappearing each time a little older and a little greyer. Therefore, his building must be whipped off between trips: a Rube Goldberg ap- paratus that is kept from falling only by a well placed supporting hand here, or arm there.