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

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The Diurnal Lepidopteran by Sylvia Neiderman HE butterfly-catching craze hit our camp this year. It struck all, from the little Midgets to the high and mighty P. Cfs fprivileged campers J. In the boys' camp, no one, from the directors baby to the conceited waiters, was exempt from the craze which swept over camp like a prairie fire. One of the directors, a biology teacher in high school, originated the fine art of but- terfly-catching - with disastrous results. During a basketball game, a butterfly might be sighted-then the chase began. Some facetious person remarked that the camp's star in track, trained to run after butterflies. Indeed it seemed so, for he was always in the van of the pursuit. No matter where one secluded himself, one was not safe from the prying eyes and net of the naturalist. The nets, by the way, were made from wire hangers and mosquito netting. One place was still sacred to the girls-the hill on which the old bas- ketball field had stood. The seniors repaired, immediately after lunch, to this hill with a supply of the inevitable movie magazines, melting chocolate or fruit saved from the table. VVe spread our- selves on the blankets, disregarding the stones underneath or the ants and occasional worms crawling above. There we took sun- baths more or less in the altogether. Yet even here were heard shrieks of horror, embarrassment and terror when one of the fanatic butterfly chasers stumbled into this female sanctuary. Outside of the social hall was an erstwhile lilac bush. One day it rained torrents, and, on poking our heads out timidly, we noticed a number of figures attired in raincoats, braving the storm, seemingly to pick leaves off the bush. This was too tempting a bait for curious girls to neglect, so we braved the elements to see what they were about. We came up with a shout. Hush up! they shouted. A'You'll disturb them. We found 'ithemn to be a very rare kind of butterfly, brilliant in color and larger than average, which fasten themselves underneath thirty-three

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Melody of Beauty by Phyllis Schwartz I WALK slowly to the top of the hill, and pause. It will never do to walk on, with this heaven of motionless beauty before me. All the majestic grandeur awaiting the touch of God's fingers, he had poured into this simple scene. Surely the sloping green of these hills has been poured by the most delicate of I-lands. At my feet the grass is ankle-high. The delicate lavendar of clover brushes the soft yellow of tiny buttercups. A daisy whose stem I have bent, but not crushed with my foot, slowly raises its fringed head. A hurt child, it is, with reproach in every motion! I move a few steps, and my shadow falls upon it. The sun, warm on my back, is sinking lower in the heavens. The green of the hill opposite me gradually softens. Far, far below the river flows, like a silver girdle amidst folds of velvet, I half close my eyes and there at the bend of the river sit the Fates. They are lovely. Their long grey hair, wafted in the wind, trails the water. They are the end of life, as they are the end of the flow- ing streaml I close my eyes, then open them-to brush away the haziness. The willows at the end of the stream are mere shadows in the deepening twilight. The hill on which I stand shades the water. Only a broad ribbon of light bathes the slope beside me. The shadow creeps higher and higher, The sun is no longer warm on my back. Softly I turn and walk back across the grass. Beauty of God's making is at rest. Night Magic, majestic, encompassing night, Closing serenely the portals of day, Curtain the sun in her rosy array- Kindle the stars as they turn in their flight- Cradle the world in your comforting dark- Station the moon as your heavenly mark- Magic, majestic, encompassing night, Out of your darkness, reveal me the light, Bayla Vixman thirty-two

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leaves in a storm. We were sent flying for cigar boxes in which to imprison the beautiful creatures. In the infirmary we had to witness the poor things being killed with ether and then having pins stuck through them. I still can't see the pleasure people de- rive from killing butterflies, the most helpless of creatures. I have said that the craze hit the Midgets as well as the seniors. lt did not strike all, but the one it did was hard hit. Selma, the enthusiast, had all the features of a Rose O'Neill Kewpydoll. Belying her appearance, she was a trial and torment to her counsellors. She liked the butterflies, but since she could not run fast or far enough to catch good ones, she contented herself with ordinary 'yellow cabbage butterflies or moths, It was during Color Week that Selma committed her worst crime. Our most important baseball game was about to start and roll-call was in progress for each team. Selma was missing. The judges gave her five minutes and then proceeded to subtract a point per minute until she appeared, The captain of her team nearly tore her hair-her own, not Selma's-she only wished she could tear the cherub's hair. When five points had been taken off the score, a round figure was seen descending the hill. lt walked slowly, then suddenly rolled down with a velocity which rivalled the Maelstrom. Where have you been? they shouted at her, Little Selma looked up, displayed her dimples and 'one missing front tooth and said calmly: Catching butterflies. Look. She extended a pudgy, dirty hand. lust a minute, ordinary, lepidopteran was breathing its last. This malady even crept in at the social dances. While dancing with the aforementioned track star, I observed him gazing raptly at the ceiling. I remarked that l thought my countenance more pleasing than that of a few rafters and spider webs. Quick, he shouted hoarsely, a ladder. An obliging boy brought a ladder, and, without his net, the runner went up, with eyes fastened on a spot invisible to us. He suddenly reached out and grabbed something. 'AA lunar moth! howled the mob gone mad at the sight of the rare eye on the wing. Half of it's mine! clamored the ladder carrier. Oh Yeah! thirty-four