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

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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

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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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'AYes, of course. But you can't begin at the top, said Henry. Take my advice. Get some work here and wait your chance. I can get you some work here with the props, lt isn't hard, and will keep you going. What do you say? For a moment he was silent. Then he faced the stage. The audience burst into raucous laughter at some grim jest of the clowns. Then. Oh, l'll do it! ln this manner Lewis Hepburn became a stage-hand. His work was dull, monotonous, painful, so different from the ache for real expression that gnawed within him. But, it permitted him to hang about the wings, to watch the acting on the stage. How he envied the players! How he criticized them and pictured how he would do this or that. He would stand, in his overalls, his eyes em- bittered, seeing them in their costumes and grease-paint. He would envy them that exciting pause just before the rise of the cur- tain-that big moment. And then, the curtain, the speeches, the applause-the play! Hepburn liked all of Shakespeare, but most of all he loved Hamlet. When it was billed, then he could be found at the wings, watching. He pictured himself as Hamlet. He knew the lines, everyone of them, and practised them assiduously. When Hamlet flung his passionate accusations at his mother, Hepburn reached his highest pitch of excitement. He lived through their emotions as deeply as did the actors themselves. And he remained a stage- hand, dutifully and monotonously moving the scenery for those who strutted before it. II THE EMPIRE THEATRE Clown fSingsJ: 'AA pick-axe and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding sheet: O, a pit of clay for to be made, For such a guest is meet. fThrows up another skulll Hamlet: There's anotherg why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits, now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! twenty-eight