John Adams High School - Clipper Yearbook (Ozone Park, NY)

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. by Q ELEANOR FITZPATRICK SYMPHONY IN RAIN With the clouds weeping upon me, I was tramping home with no one to accompany me but a straggly black cat. I was taking a short cut, not a very safe trail for a young girl, for it led through a freight yard. But I could see no one, and the place looked perfectly safe. I was nearly through it when the great clouds above me seemed to cry aloud with new anguish, for great sheets of piercing rain fell on my scantily protected shoulders. I glanced around for a port of refuge and was soon sheltered beneath a rude roof with a few pieces of lumber to hold it up. I found, when I entered this place, that I was not the only occupant, for a large mother cat and her family of kittens were all sleeping peace- fully, their steady breathing broken regularly with feline snores. I settled down to wait for some signs of a let-up and, having nothing better to do, gazed somberly at the seemingly endless fall of rain. My eyes were surprised to iind in their line of vision a small bird flying to and fro. When it finally settled on a dry porch somewhere near me, it strangely enough started a gay twitter, at last breaking into song. It was odd to hear it. My ears then caught other sounds. The wind was gently flap- ping a piece of tin back and forth, making it sound like a cymbal. The snores of the sleeping cats sounded something like deep-voiced in- struments, and the rain falling in heavy drops from an electric wire on the roof resembled the steady beat of the drumg the wind softly whining 'round the corner of the shed made an odd sort of music like a flute. Above it all was the strong song of the bird. All keeping time un- cannily, it reminded me of a natural symphony. But alas! The rain ceased, the bird flew, the cats woke, my orchestra vanished, and my fond idea of a symphony in rain was past. 8

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GRIENTAL FANTASY A o 0 by SARAH KISCH Arabia's silver moon illuminated the Sultan's gardens in a most entrancing pattern. Now, low-foliaged trees were whispering to each other. Perhaps they were telling each other of the exquisiteness of the evening, of the beauty, the silver beauty of the moon. Perhaps they were whispering the secrets of the flowers, the secrets of the lily-white lotus flowers. Here, a wind passed, and it seemed as if the trees sighed, a silken, sad, uncertain sigh . Perhaps they were thinking of the lovely prince, so young, so fair, who at evening, would walk through the gardens of the Sultan as if in search of something, or someone . . . There, by the side of the black pool, glimmering jade green some- times, and sometimes silver as the moon fancied . . . sits the comely youth. He gazes upon the whiteness of a lotus flower. Gazing thus, a silken swishing attracts his ear. The sounds are pleasant. They set his every fibre tingling with a strange ecstatic touch. Almost reluctantly, as if he believed that he was dreaming again, he turned and saw Billa Sel. He saw the Princess, real only in his im- agination. He stepped forward. Shyly the Princess retreated. Again he stepped forward. The trees sighed. A sigh, too, escaped from the lips of Billa Sel. With her hand stretched gropingly out, she came towards him. He was real, then, he who was real only in her imagination . . . The moon shone silverly upon the once black pool. It was a round, full, cheerful moon now. Somewhere on its edge, spirits of peace hov- ered, while the wind passed caressingly through the whispering, low- foliaged trees. 7

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THE RANKS CLCSE UP 0 0 0 by RUTH STERLING 4 Pm tired of it! Tired of it all! Tired of the cold, the hunger, the endless marching. I want to go home--to my wife-my babes! Young Pieri-e's hysterical cry ended in a wail. Sh! sh-sh! Do not talk so loud! What if the Emperor should hear! Emperor! Bah! Murderer! Desecrater of homes! Killer of men! Yes! Do not stare at me so! Did he not swear the world should be ours, if we should take Moscow? The world is ours! This world of endless suffering! The Emperor marches on! Behind him he leaves a trail of men-dead men, broken men, and we who march are dead in all but the flesh! But-close up, close up, close up the ranks-that's his cry-his thanks for our starving, bleeding existence! Pierre, Pierre, say not such things! Old Jean knows you mean no harm, but the others . . . ! At last Pierre slept, amid the icy desolation about him. Dawn appears, and with it a new day. Around a fire sits a group of ragged, shivering men. But I want to tell you! lt's a nice story! We don't want to hear any stories, fool! Oh, let him talk! The old fellow is crazy any way. So the wrinkled old dotard with a toothless grin began. It was on a morning such as this. My father was going to feed the stock when he thought he heard a muffled cry. He looked around, then, perceiving no one, pushed on. Again he heard the cry. This time it was more persist- ent and seemed much nearer. Presently my father came upon a mound of snow of peculiar shape, and guessing that the sound emerged from there, began to brush away the snow. To his great amazement, he found a woman half-dead with cold and almost buried in the soft snow. He took her home to my mother, and between them, they brought her GS 9