The Illman School - Span Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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THE ILLMAN SCHOOL MY VERY PERSONAL UTOIWIA Someday-someday I'm going to sit on the top of a high, high hill where I'I1 feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. I'll look at the trees, the flowers, the countryside- really see them-just look and look and look. I'm going to listen to a raindrop fall like a silver bell and not a deadly splash. And then I'll paint a picture, a wondrous gleaming picture, and write a book, a charming, heart-rending book. I'l1 make up poems-poems so beautiful that they'll touch the soul of the bitterest cynic, and compose music that will thrill the greatest musical fanatic. Someday I'm going to remember that the moon is really a golden plate and the stars are the little holes in the floor of heaven-not merely shining, fiery, metal discs. I'll look at all the tiny bugs and sunbeams. And it will come to me suddenly that I've forgotten all these years that they are baby nymphs flying around laughing to one another. And then someday, I'm going to take a shining boat and go somewhere, just anywhere- I don't care at all-over the shimmering sea. Iall let the salty water splash in my face and the cold winds cool it. And I'm going to- But it's eight o'clock. I'll be late for school. I'm oil to teach children to paint my pictures. to write my poems, to look at my trees and flowers-to dream my dreams. But isn't it worth it? Suppose I had no dreams to give them? But then again-Someday. LAURA ELIZABETH SAUSSER. A THOUGHT Of all the million acres of land And all the miles of ocean and sea, I thought, while resting on the sand How very little there is of me. FLORENCE LINDSLEY. Page Sixty-eight

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THE SPAN-1931 EXPECCTATIION One clay, I shall go forth to meet the Spring And stand up on a hill, and both arms fling Wide in the wind sea-blown across the sands, To catch its salty fragrance in my hands. Before the first bird dares, I'1l wildly sing And urge my quiclcened thoughts on eager wing To pry from ancient bridges the good stone And curve it slcyward till the arch be thown. Against the sun and stars. Red blood in me Shall leap, before the slow sap fills the tree. My fullest strength shall blossom and surpass The freshness and the sweetness of new grass. VIRGINIA SMITH Page Sixty-seven

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THE SPAN-1931 HAPPTNIESS Lost-the art of happiness, which was crushed into many pieces and tossed to the four winds. Perhaps, as you travel the highways and byways of life you will find it again. We are all searching for it, each in his own manner, but only a very few find any of its flowers. It is strange for the flowers of happiness are many. They grow along the pathways which we all must follow. Gather happiness as you journey on, for it is scattered in many places. There is no large field at the end of the road where these flowers are found in abundance, where we can gather as many as we desire. Then, live in happiness ever after. Now is the time for happiness-today, this hour. Around us on every side are the flowers. We need only to see, recognize, and gather these humble blossomsg remembering always, that the flowers of happiness which yield the most joy are those which are shared with another. He who is selhsh can never be truly happy. Whether it be the happiness of wealth, friendship, beauty, or love, there must be someone to share it with, if the joy is to be complete. Happiness is fundamental. Upon it depends the life of every person. Love is happiness, friendship is happinessg beauty is happiness, life is happiness. Who would, if they could, live without it? Is it not good to be alivel The joy of living fills one with the desire to dog to actg to achieve. What? Happiness, and more happiness! Take it within your hands, hold it gently, all the while breathing in the sweet lingering fragrance of its blossoms. Then with a happy smile place it in the hands of another. lVlAY C. LOWER. BEAUTY Beauty--to define it Is like trying to imprison With mere words The matchless glory of the sunset's hte, The crystal clearness of the trembling dewg Or the keen ecstasy of far-borne wind. DOROTHY NELLIS. Page Sixty-nine