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

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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

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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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back to consciousness. Day after day she remained, telling them naught about herself, her past life, or how she came to be in the strange place my father found her. Then one day she was gone. On the table she left this. Here he exhibited a queer ornament-a pearl set in an ex- quisitely carved gold ring. Wrapped around the ring was a little note, expressing thanks to my parents for their kindess to her, and stating that whosoever should wear the ring would be lucky until the day he died. Heh! Heh! Isn't that a nice story? The cracked voice ceased. The men stirred restlessly, again con- scious of the cold. In the silence a sharp whistle shrieked! An order was harked out to sullen men-and the Emperor marched on. Close up, close up- Five days later, Old Jean was dead. Pierre was stunned. Lying in a shallow grave, with no mark to identify the spot, was his only friend, Jean. Mutely he stood there, bowed with pain. Gradually he became con- scious of someone standing near him. The emaciated fool who had told the story. He felt something pressed into his rag-covered hand. He looked. It was the luck-ring. With a gasp he glared at the donor. Luck! he breathed. Luck! And he laughed a horrible laugh. The little old man shrank back before the glazed eyes of the youth. Pierre pushed him aside, and screamed Men! You shall listen to me! to Pierre! Pierre shall go to the Emperor and demand a burial with the honors for Jean! You will see if my wishes are not obeyed! He pushed his way through the crowd of men surrounding him, and up to where the commander of his company stood. To the Emperor! he commanded, Take me to the Emperor. The officer cowered behind his companions. Never before had he seen a man look like that. Pierre showed him the ring. With a scream the man nearest pointed to it. The others gazed in astonishment. What was it in the ring that made men obey that stooping, hollow-eyed youth? Pierre again shot his hand out before the gaze of the cowering officer, the hand with the ring on. Slowly the man separated from the group and led the way to the camp of the Emperor. Halt! Who goes there?,' An officer. The Emperor wishes to see no one. The Emperor will see me. f Please turn to Page 51 j G6 10