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

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Freedom From Bondage by Lillie Fialkoff Can my soul be freed from bondage Though my body Chained, yet striving Straining -- hampered H Always fails? While the sun beats down upon me VVarm and soothing, full of greeting Soft and loving in his kindness Must I always stretch to greet him Never reaching, Unattaining? Go, my soul, forever leave me Leave this tortured Pain that racks me, Struggling uselessly, In vain. Rise, caress the sunbeams gently As they dance upon the waters, Bask upon the down-like cloud-beds Fly then toward the smiling sun-god Ever happy Go, my soul. twenty--six

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Canary-Colored Walls by Alice Ames HE turned the corner of the hall and there it was-the ward. At last, he thought, at last. He sighed and walked on through the high ceilinged corridor with its cream and pale green walls, into the ward. lt had been a long hard struggle to get money for medical school. It had been a long hard struggle to go through medical, scraping here and there, using lack of time as an excuse for missing lunches. He looked about him. The place was certainly a cheery one in spite of the suffering it harbored. The canary col- ored walls suggested spring though the snow lay blanketing the grounds outside, and the half frozen river sloughed on like a bowl of mud-green glue dotted with chopped diamonds. The pale green beds stretched along both sides of the room, each snow white cover's serenity disturbed only by the little mounds caused by the pairs of motionless legs and each pillow's smoothness dotted by a small face. Here a nurse was anxiously watching the effects of a Kleisig while a young student watched the fluid as it slowly grew less in the glass c. c. jar, which hung upon a white steel rack. There, up and down the right side of the aisle, a young 'proby' looked at her mysterious little slips and distributed pills to one, liquids to another. The head nurse hurriedly prepared a bed. She had scarcely finished when a young interne rolled in an operating slab containing a prostrate body. The body was swathed from head to foot in many blankets. Even the face was covered, as if the child no longer had need of air. The young interne grasped the motionless form gently but firmly by the ankles, the head nurse grasped the neck in the same manner, and the 'proby' placed all her strength upon the small of the back and on a third count, they raised it into the bed, covered it without a word as the ward maid wheeled the table away. The 'proby' went on her way. The doctor after recording the operation, gave the nurse some final instructions and left. Yes, it would be all that from now until the end, pale green beds, white uniforms, treatments, operations, prostrate forms, sad faces-and canary colored walls. twenty-Hve

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'cPoor Yorickl' by Evelyn Rothman I THE EMPIRE THEATRE Clown tSingsj: A'But age, with his stealing steps, Hath clawed me in his clutch, And hath shipped me intil the land, As if I had never been such, tThrows up a skull.l Hamlet: That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw- bone. It might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'erreaches. f LUTCHING the voluminous curtain, a man stood in the wings. He was shrouded in shad- ow, his body on tiptoe, his gaze intent upon the stage, where the blackness was relieved only by the flickering torches of the grave-diggers. The young man seemed to absorb every word of the actors: he followed every motion, each gesture. Suddenly he was disturbed by a hand which grasped his shoulder. I say, Lewis, did you get that job? No -and he turned toward his friend frowning. I went to see the manager, and he tried me out in that part I wanted. I did the best I could, but it didn't go over. It went badly. Every- thing was wrong. He didn't like it. He turned back, facing the stage again, muttering almost to himself. No one appreciates my ability. I suppose it's an old story with you, though. Listen , his friend urged, Why don't you do as I do? Things may happen. You may get some chance. Don't you see? Oh, I couldn't. I couldn't get myself to do such-such work. It isn't art: I want to be an actor. If only I could have a chance, now-a small chance. Even the gravedigger-in Hamlet. I could work if I had some small outlet. To shovel earth, toss skulls about, and murmur witticisms-that would be something, at least, It's been a long pull, and I've had no luck. twentyfseven