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

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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

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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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Things got to such a state that the director, on seeing a picture in town of a boy, chasing a butterfly with a net, similar to the homemade ones, brought it back to camp, hung it over the camp banner, and called it the Spirit of Saginaw . The crowning laugh came when medals were announced at the banquet. They didn't give many medals that year, but they had to give a nature medal to the boy who displayed the greatest interest in nature, and had the greatest nature collection. However, the capture of the lunar moth, was slated by public opinion for the all-around athletes cup, much coveted and envied by the whole camp. At the banquet, his chest as well as his head had swelled and the expanse of blue sweater was alarming. When the awards were called, everyone looked toward him expectantly. Stanley Lorber is hereby awarded a medal of great worth. It signifies his interest in the main sport of camp, his determination, his sportsmanship, and his dogged perseverance. Lorber, I present you with the butterfly medal. Cities by Florence Haggerty L ITTLE black ants swarming in myriads at the bases of their high grey ant hills, in and out, futile, inconsequential, and inevitable. Long, bright, sparkling underground glowworms scuttling under the earth pausing now and then for ant-passengers only to scuttle on again. Winged carriers, fireflies darting through the night air to other ant hill colonies. Myriads of patient toilers striving for the mass perfection: ants for their ant hills. Then the breath of the unknown blowing down their ant hills, scattering the hurrying hordes far and wide, and then, for a time nothingness. Then slowly, slowly, ants creeping back, building crumb by crumb and speck by speck the ant hills-making their glowworms and fireflies again-new civilization only to be breathed away again-only to be built again-ad infinitum-everywhere futility. thirty-five