Hunter College High School - Argus Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 35 text:

THE ARGUS Mg Brother My brother's home from college now, And he has grown so tall- He knocks against the chandelier That's hanging in the hall! ' My voice is very small and shrill, But his is gruff and deep: And he smokes Camel cigarettes- And snores when he's asleep! He wears a belted Norfolk coat, A green Fedora hat- And he puts suet on his hair To make it lie down flat. He plays the Ukelele, too! And all fthe girls flock 'round him: And when he does the latest steps- The fellows want to pound him! I 'don't believe there's anything My brother doesn't know: Why, he can take a frog apart, To see what makes ift go! My brother speaks live languages, And reads 'em when they're dead: I don't see how he carries all His knowledge in his head! In History, he knows lots of things I never heard at all- That Caesar crossed the Rubicon, And France was once called Gaul.. . .. But I know something he can't find In any musty book- Thazt fairies sail in curly leaves, Adown our little brookg And when the new moon paints the glade With trembly silver light, They dance in rings, until the sun Has chased away the nightg And that in Winfter, when the snow Has covered up the ground, St. Nicholas comes to our house, And never makes a sound- But fills my stocking to the top, From a huge, bursting pack He carries down our chimney-Hue Upon his sturdy back ............ So, sometimes,-when the twilight comes, I hear my brother sigh, When lilacs brush against the porch, And bees hum slowly by,- And Mother takes me on her lap, In the big wicker chair, And I can lean my face against Her honey-colored hair ........ At dusk,--my learned brother thinks That he would like to be What he can never be again,-- A little boy,-like me! MARY FRANCES LINDSLEY, Ag-1 33

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Page 36 text:

T H E A R G U S 69:1 fllllg Biztant Qlhilhhnnh It is a rainy evening, and I sit at the table half-heartedly skimming my Latin. Virgil prates cheerily on in language beyond my understanding. I strike a snag, and closing my book, decide to meditate. Very well, but on what am I to meditate? I look up, and begin to hear my little sister dron- ing her sevens beginning with two, and my little brother wrestling with three barrels of apples at four dollars and ninety-eight cents apiece. I am suffused with inspiration- the relentless rhythm of the rain is hasheesh to my mind-I shall meditate on my own distant childhood. I see a tall, thin kid, with longi straight braids and muddy elbows. I particularly remember the elbowsg they were my mother's despair. As for features, they are an indeterminate composite of what I thought I looked like-I believed I was so beautiful that people turned around in the street to look at me-and the homely, gawky agglomeration of angles that a photograph shows. My life was full of glorious amlbitions, romance, and ad- venture. The grand passion did not pass me by. Ah, no! Roseate dreams of marrying a candy-store man filled me with' bliss. I saw myself shooting soda-water into a glass, stirring it officiously and sliding it across 'the counter as if I had slung sodas all my life. And perhaps-perhaps I might even marry a circus owner! Watch the elephants play baseball, watch the monkey give the bear a shave and hair-cut, watch all the Positively Last Performances of Mlle. Petite-every clay-pink lemonade-pop cornr-But this verges almost on the impossible. The child is essentially a lover of the spectacular, and I was no exception to the rule. How often have I seen myself scale impossible walls, almost imperceptible crevices affording secure steps for my nimble feet, the house bursting with Hames, the walls threatening any second to cave in all about me! Thus have I climbed forty-seven-count 'em-forty-seven stories, and, amidst the plaudits of 'the mob, rescued the help- less infant from its cradle. It should be firmly established in the reader's mind that the mob, plaudits and all, is an indis- pensable property. When I was the burly bystander who stops 34