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

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ON READING THE DICTIONARY ROBABLY the last adjectives most people would think of applying to the perusal of a standard dictionary are exciting and inviting. Yet to the more imaginative not only are these true but they also find it a volume filled with mystic formulae. They find it not a book which limits by defini- tion but stimulates by suggestion. If you take up your lexicon with the intention of looking up a word- say Chasseur . You see that it means huntsman, but you permit yourself to glance down the page and you see Hchastel' and 4'Chastise. You won't have much difliculty in constructing your story. The tale of the young girl who meets the handsome hunter in the forest and loves him despite the inevitable wrath of her father may appeal to youg others may prefer ,the chaste wife, the chance encounter with the chasseur and the subsequent fury of her husband. There are many other combinations of words, some of which are amusing. Look up Homer and you will find honey , honeysuckle , honeymoon , Honolulu home and hooey l The shortest story in the world! And still another. Tho this one is more grue- someg in-law, innuendo, inquest, inquiry and inquisition. Doubtless, now, when someone asks you, What is the longest book in the world? you sniff and do not answer, The dictionary, as you did when you were younger. But there is so much truth in this joke that bad as it is, you are inclined to forgive it, you are scarcely inclined to think of so stolid a thing as a standard dictionary as a magic carpet, yet by the mere sound of some words we find ourselves transported to strange places. Do not the words saxaphone , harem , canteen and minuet bring definite pictures to your mind. The beauty of it is that each tale is of your own composition and therefore pleasing. And of course your vocabulary to be practical shows your choice of reading matter. It frequently happens that when you refer to the dictionary for one word you see lured on by ten others. Several are sure to remain in your mind, generally the original one is not among them. Helen Oberstein, C6 TO SHINE IN USE As swords were made to fight with, So souls were made to fight with. We need a cause to fight for With soul, just as with sword. Alice Kalousdian, B8 Page Thirty

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I--DAWN Aurora wakes and stretches out her arms, And tears the veil of darkness in the actg And then she gently yawns, And rising, spills her garments, many-hued, On the transparent floor of heaven, And then we mortals looking at the sky, See the bright heralds of the dawn. II-EVENING The sun-god flees, and leaves across the skies, A trail of beauty, a master hand revealing, Such beauty as brings tears into our eyes, And to our hearts a peace and joy all-healing. Across the busy city, silence fallsg A silence in which man to his true mate speaks low In Godls sweet language only souls can hear. Wearily the world wraps 'round its tired self Its mantle dark, and soft night falls. Grace Inman, X8 DIDO'S DEATH Death came for the queen, Thrice raising glazed eyes Dulled by death's mist sheen She looked at the skies And remembered dreams- Pain, a city wall, Turrets, busy scenes And love--that was all. Weary, sad, forlorn, 'Her Majesty' yet- Ascending from earth-Mourn! Death and Beauty met .... Sarah Lederman, A8 Page Twenty-nine

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NOCTURNE EN years-almost eleven since he had left this same room. Ten years-making the difference between a boy and-almost a man. Richard had come home. He stood on the threshold of the room that had been his in 1918, the room he had left for France and drums and bugles and bally-hoo, the room he had forgotten, locked away in the cupboard with those other things that hurt. It was the same as he had left it-the sunlight playing thru the yellow curtains and on the creamy walls, sending shafts of beams over to the bookcase, making bright pools of maple light on the well-waxed floor. There was the rug, chewed a bit as to the end, fa memory of a perky terrier frisked across his mindj and the small mahogany bed, with its bright yellow cover. Dante and Beethoven still flanked the Winged Victory on the glistening top of the low bookcase. And there was a yellow canary Q surely not his gallant Coeur de Lionlj teetering and chirping at the stranger in his domain. It seemed but yesterday he had left, and here was his castle holding out its arms to him as if he were still the boy who had gone. It was, for an instant, an attack in an unguarded quarter, a breath-taking something ached in his throat, and a voice swelled from within, crying, Why?- Why?-Oh, God!--Why? That voice-for almost ten years it hadn't spoken-he had smothered it pretty thoroughly that first year in the hospital, and through the years had drowned its poignancy in a scintillant cynicism. Only a moment, then his well-schooled mouth twisted one corner and he gave a little bored laugh. He walked over to the window and stood, with his empty sleeve brushing the sill, looking out. He had forgotten, watching the sun in Italy, on the Riviera, in Spain, that the sun painted the streets of New York like this. Now he remembered, saw the familiar tracing of the cold autumn sunshine on the grey walls of the big apartment on the corner, saw it run in calm, preoccupied beams over the heads of the five little Dutch houses opposite. The street was placid, usual, unchanged. Here was something that had remained in his world of chaos. Ten years before the street had been the same, the room had been the same. A shy boy, with eyes deep with dreams, lost in the lovely maze of music, had studied there. He had stood at that window and watched the sun's painting, or the rain's sweeping line of march, and seen music and beauty. And when the sun had just set over the Hudson, when the sky was purpling crimson and the first stars were beginning to glimmer and the curb lamps were beginning to glow, he had played his beloved violin here- some tune to satisfy his mood-but most often the sweet Minuet in G, of Beethoven, or, torn by some grief that eighteen knows, played his own Nocturne He wondered if the distinguished-looking man with the twirled mus- tache, and the little girl with the brown curls, still lived opposite. They had Page Thirty-one