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

Page 29 text:

WTWISTVERSATIONM Much have we heard of conversation and of many folks well versed in that art. How little have we heard of Twistversation, one of the many unappreciated arts. Scientifically the first point to consider is: What is this utwistversa- tion? That is where the art comes ing it is so artistic that it defies defini- tion. Let us however do the best we can. Twistversation is the art of involuntarily speaking in a manner utterly unintelligible except to the initiate, i. e. to those afflicted with the same malady. There, have I called an art a malady? At that, it is rather unfortunate to ask your favorite member of the faculty if she minds racking bywarcls in the trains, when you mean riding backward. There is both definition and illustration of twist- versationf' Next in consideration are the acquisition and practice of said art. As to the first, it cannot be acquired. It is no less than a gift of the gods in capricious mood. By the same token, it cannot be practised consciously. It just comes out-and it runs in families. Mine is an authority on the subject. Now to take up what people say when they have spells of this,-mixing initial letters, tacking whole syllables elsewhere, and so on. In Lab my friend one day asked me what difference it would make if our experiments were not accepted. Very poetically I replied that our larks would be mower. Fix up m and l for yourself! Looking for rooms with a friend, I had occasion to ask a question of a tenant in a certain apartment house. When she informed us that all those apartments were lovely , my friend replied agreeably, c'Yes, we've just been halking through the walls! Of course there are the famous poets, Sheats and Kelley, and in the matter of poetry, the following gems: What made that runt frank ran fall down? -or, as Kipling actually wrote it: What made that front rank man fall down? And I remember quoting, all unsuspecting: Blessings on thee, little man, Barefaced boy with feet of tan- The result of Twistversation are manifold. Friends of the afflicted think her amusing, a little crazy, and certainly pitiable. But the artistic malady may make her famous overnight, if the night happens to be one on which it is at work. V Marion 0'Connor, B8 Page Nineteen

Page 28 text:

clock so closely that he could almost see it tick off the minutes. Suddenly his attention was arrested by a soft rustling as of autumn leaves, and out of the tree-darkened paths a little girl stepped. That strained, seeking expres- sion was gone from her eyes, and instead, relief and joy shone out. It would be hard to tell Peter's feelings as he watched her. She was an awfully little girl, he thought rather contemptuously, and she couldn't be very brave, for she had been crying. But it tickled his vanity to think she was one of the children who did care enough to stay behind and speak to him. Oh, Peter Pan, she was saying, Pvc been so afraid I wouldn't find you. Everything is so dark and still-and queer. I know the fairies must be watching, for I saw the end of a wing disappear around a bush. Do you think they are angry at me for coming after closing hours? But I had to see you, Peter. They said you couldn't talk any more .... the children did. They said you are just a stone statue, and it's all make-believe that you ever lived at all ...... and they don't believe .... Oh, Peter .... they don't believe in fairies! She bent forward in hushed expectancy. So I came myself, Peter, to hear what you would say, so I could go back and tell them that you are alive. Please talk to me, Peter! The moon shone on her fair hair and tear-wet lashes, and it turned her little face to a silvery whiteness that made her eyes very large and dark blue. Peter, generous, impulsive soul, was moved. Dear me, she is a nice little girl, even if she does cry, he said to himself, and I wish I could talk to her for just a minute, Then remember- ing the long forever of the queen of fairies, he shuddered and stayed silent. Breathlessly Alice waited. 'iWhy Peter, are you angry at me too? Peter hated at that moment the fairy queen and her laws. He thought it was a shame that Alice should have to go away believing him a statue, when he was really such a clever fellow .... She was crying brokenheartedly now. Oh, Peter, tell me they were wrong. You can talk, can't you? Say that you can! Peter felt a lump rising in his throat when he heard the imploring note in the tiny voice down there. No one could call him anything but careless, no one could call him wise, yet he realized how much it would mean to Alice if he refused to speak. Within him surged a flood of heroism which made him oblivious to consequences. He stepped down from his pedestal with a noble air. Of course I can talk, little girl. Pm. ap great fellow, I am. I' can do almost anything you ask me to. I killed five pirates and ever so many Indians, 'n I can fly higher than any of the fairies, 'n I'm chief of the army in the Neverland, and he hopped up and down on one foot and grinned broadly at the blissful Alice. Oh .... she breathed joyfully. And in the sweetness of her over- whelming admiration Peter quite forgot the great sacrifice he had made. Comelia A ugwsta Newton, Bg3 Page Eighteen

Page 30 text:

Page Twenty PRESENCE I cannot see an autumn leaf of burnished gold, Unthinking of the gold that is your hairg My memories dispel not in November's boar cold- . . . .For you are there. I cannot see an azure sky disturbed by rain, Unthinking of your troubled eyes in their blue lair. Tranquillity, I try in dusty sunbeams to attain-- . . . .But you are there. Violets you kissed one day, and daisies trod upon- All colors. . as an antidote. .enchancing grayness of despair In this dejection colorless you will be gone. . . . .But you are there. Perchance if I should seek the alien solitude, The hush of dim cathedrals, unfamiliar prayer, Then you might leave me in this holiness to brood- . . . .But you are there. I stumble heedlessly o'er miles of barren earth. A joyless laugh rings hollow through the air. Perhaps you will take pity on my mirthless mirth? . . . .Still you are there. And now, life's ever-fleeting span relaxed to earth, And beauty, life and love no longer fair- In death a lonely grave fulfills my need- . . . .You are not there. Mignon Audrey Bushel, .48 ENVY A wind That beats the malice-foam On hearts of rock. A lash That whips the victim Into hate and fury. A goad To wreck the peace of Mind and heart. Jane Hastings, X6