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

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I 1 In Memoriam by Alice Berge many ways but perhaps the deepest impres sion has been made by the late demise of my beloved friend Napoleon Neptune He a quiet retiring little creature had been my pet for many years-or at least for three. With soft, limpid brown eyes, and a singuarly smooth skin, he was, to me, the - epitome of beauty and affection. His ears were invisible, but this did not seem to pre- vent him from hearing me call him to dinner. He died, I am sorry to say, of an unknown affliction, most probably starvation or old age. HIS past winter has been memorable for me in I say starvation, because Nap , as I affectionately called him, did not live alone. He had, as a companion, a strong, husky old fellow, who, since he was much bigger than the late Nap, walked all over him, ate all his food, and usurped the little one's place in the sun. To all of this brutality 'ANap could only answer by hiding in his house till H0ssie -short for Qsmosis-had passed. Understanding now-when, alas, it is too late-the meek, resigned, and somewhat starved appearance of the deceased, I marvel that I had not noticed it before. We lived a gay and happy life together, we two, Each morning, on awaking, I would call--or should have-softly: 'ANa- ap! and always I would see him jerk his head. And too, when I went to feed him, he would move sluggishly over to me and then eat slowly what UOssie consented to leave him. During the winter months, he usually hibernated. This suited me since I could not be with him because of school. But during the summer. our intimacy grew by leaps and bounds. Then he and Ossie would show off in the sun, imitating a leaning tower-fwith Nap usually the basel. And if he had been exceptionally good, I would set him on the floor and let him stretch his legs, taking care, how- ever, that visiting dogs and cats were safely out of the way. Then thirteen

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Madonna of the Street Lamp by Ilma Schramm I STOOD by my window as the first really blue-black evening shadows began to stand out in startling relief on the buildings across the street from me. Everything was submerged in this sombre hue with the exception of one spotg the tiny circle of brilliant light which radiated from the street lamp. It is a spotlight on a stage! I thought, delighted with this fantasy. UAH we need now is an actor and we are ready for a drama. I had scarcely composed this thought before my player arrived on the scene. Out of the shadows emerged a figure clothed in dark. garments which I luckily could not see in the dusk. The light of the lamp, however, played full upon her face, I gasped! It was the face of a Madonna! For one brief instant she stood poised beneath the rays of the lamp and in that instant I saw just enough. I-Ier face was absolutely colorless in the glare. Her eyes were a dull, velvety black and seemed to be of enormous depth. I'Ier nose was straight like that of a Grecian gofldess and her lips, above a delicate chin, were a deep, mellow redi Her whole face expressed some overwhelming sorrow or martyrdom. She stopped for a fleeting second and then she was gone. I was bewildered for a moment and then glad that I had seen no more of her. For had I been able to scrutinize her at more length I might have found that her face was not so perfect as it at first seemed. I most surely would have discovered her dress to be modern and not just a black robe thrown about her. And what seems most disillusioning of all, she would, in all probability, have not possessed the spotless virtues of a Madonna. Yet this is not for me to conjecture, I should be satisfied that on to that perfect setting stepped the perfect character, and that I can add to those who people my mind the Nladonna of the street lamp. twelve

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P l he and HOssie would stage marathon races, although he knew full well he had no chance of winning. Perhaps it was the exercise that killed him, perhaps my late neglect of him, who knows? At any rate, he is gone, and Ossie is now living alone, but enjoying his more spacious quarters immensely, never once giving thought to his poor deceased friend. But after all, what could you expect of a turtle? A Store Window by lean Libman IT was a small inconspicuous store facing a wide brightly illu- minated thoroughfare. Gay laughing crowds filled with the joy and good spirits of the festive season hurried through the streets. Some looked at the many beautifully decorated store windows while others hastened on. But none cast a second glance at the tiny florist's shop on the corner. This little store did not attempt to compete with the large one featuring orchids, rare blooms and fancy prices, that the gay crowd patronized. There were no glaring lights or crashing colors in this window. Instead, it was a little section of nature's own fields transferred to the cold city street. There were no modernistic, flame-colored elephants bearing cactus plants on their backs, or silly dogs with purple striped leaves for tailsg but in the foreground of the window was a tiny field of daffoa dils demurely bowing their yellow heads. Behind them was a pot of iris, a splash of royal purple contrasting with the golden glow of the daffodils. The ground was carpeted with a velvety grass, while here and there a for-get-me-not shyly peeped out. To one side was a small rose-bush turning itself about a miniature trellis, while a tiny humming-bird buried its head in one of the fragrant pink blossoms. The arrangement of the whole window was so realistic that l was almost led into believing that the merry couples and the noisy traffic on the street were a dream, that only the garf den existed. l came again and again during the next few days, never tiring of watching the little window. for l Uhad found at last where the summer goes, fourteen