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

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Hershel Stapolyi by Sylvia Dodes HUMOR travels in curious garb. Picture an old shaggy look- ing man walking along a highway of Russia. On his head he wears an old dilapidated hat pushed back on his gray hair to reveal his Uyamelkan, a black skull cap worn in a synagogue. When the wind blows his beard up, one can see the remains of a shirt whose color would be hard to determine. Who knows, it may have been white, once upon a time, The old black coat, which reaches his muddy shoes, is barely held together by huge safety-pins and patches. Perhaps it once belonged to an ancient dweller of the town Stapolyi. Hershel Stapolyi passes a cottage on the road. From the open window comes the delicious, fragrant odor of warm porridge. Hershel goes to the woman who is stirring the pot of porridge, and asks for a little of it. I have no porridgef' says the woman sheepishly. Oh, l thought you were stirring some in that pot, answered Hershel, feeling a bit hurt. That . . . why . . . a . . . Yes . . .l mean no, that's a dress l'm boiling to make clean. l-lershel, pretending to believe her, asks her permission to sit down for awhile and rest. The woman, greatly relieved that the subject has been changed, consents, and leaves the room. Meanwhile Hershel, overcome by hunger, eats up the luscious porridge with the stirring spoon. Suddenly he hears footsteps of the mistress returning. R-R-R-R-Rip goes the shirt off his body and into the pot where had been the tasty porridge. A'Horrors! What have you done? exclaims the woman. Oh, answered Hershel nonchalantly, I thought as long as you were boiling your dress in that pot, you wouldn't mind boiling my shirt also. Hershel leaves the woman in a state of stupor and as he passes the cottage, he removes a new silk shirt from the washline. As he jogs along the road. he keeps repeating how good that dress tasted! thirty'-seven

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Reveille by Mildred Levin QA prayer for a young woman who was overtaken by sleeping sickness more than a year ago.j GNE year ago she fell asleep. Not since then has she uttered a sound. Not once has she opened her eyes and seen the tender faces about her. Were it not for her soft monotonous breath- ing, one would think her dead. They say she lives-if an existence that does not know Life may be called living. Perhaps she does not even know what has befallen her. Does she realize that gentle Sleep has become her ruthless kid- napper? Many months ago Sleep came on the cool air of the evening to claim her. Nor did he release her when the bright sun rose on the morrow. He keeps her bound with heavy chains. Until this day he holds her, sullenly refusing to give her either to Life or to Death. Meanwhile a golden year of her youth has slipped by. VVhen the earth went to sleep in winter, she followed it. Spring came. but forgot to awaken her. Water lilies bloomed last sum- mer, but she did not see them. An autumn came and wentg she does not know it. She did not behold the world as it grew more beautiful every day in leafy garments of red and gold. She did not hear the soft snows of winter as they fluttered down. There have been cold, life-giving days which she hasn't felt. Now another: spring has come. Laughingly, we welcome it. All the world except her begins to awaken. Yet while she has slept, all the world has known sorrow and pain. She did not feel the scorching sun of summer, nor the biting winds of winter. The faces of hungry men mean nothing to her. People have fought each other. There have been tragedies. Tears have been shed. She does not know it. I am sure she'd be happy to open her eyes and to experience both joy and sorrow. Ch, Father, awaken her now. Touch her gently, very gently with Your wand. Let her rub her drowsy eyes and, as they flutter open, let her behold smiling faces. Let the day of her awakening be one of sunshine and brightness. the most glorious in the history of mankind, so that she may know the living world is glad to receive her again. thirtyasix

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I Wish I Were I wish I were a million miles away from this dull place- A million miles away - beneath a tropic sung And that the thing I fear and dread, I'd never have to face, My failures all wiped out - I'd just begun. I wish I were a million miles away, beside the sea To watch the flying fishes acrobatics My mind and body rested and forever free f- A million miles away from mathematics! thirty-eight Ilma Schramm