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

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THE FATAL MELODY 1 BY Cuimxs McKAY VKX: 98 fl 3 a' .fi - ric Lansing stood beside his host- ess acknowledging the introductions with a cool smile. Mrs. Rogers took her famous guest to a group around the piano, and continued the introductions. As she did, she noticed the young man seated in one of the far corners of the room. Oh, Mr. Lansing, let me present a brother of your profession, she said, Mr. Lansing, meet Mr. Martin Windsor. A change that was visible only for the fraction of a second stole over Lansing as he faced the younger man. The man spoken of as Windsor had paled perceptibly. Mrs. Rogers looked from one to the other, puzzled at such strange behavior. Finally Lansing relieved the situation by saying, Mr, Windsor and I have met be- fore. Windsor held out his hand to the vi-olinist. The latter pretended ignorance of the gesture. A red flush stole over Windsor's face. So we did, and quite a very long time ago, eh Lansing, he drawled. Why, isn't that too lovely for words. You know, Mr. Lansing, Mr. Windsor is quite a violinist in his own right. Pretty soon he'll be following in your footsteps. she gushed. I'm aifraid the dream of following in the footsteps of so great a musician as Mr. Lansing will never be realized by me. Windsor murmured, a thin smile playing about the corners of his mouth. After excusing himself, Lansing made for his room. He opened the door and put on the light. Not knowing why he did so, he turned about quickly and glanced at the -open door. Hum, he mused, that's funny, could have sworn I heard someone in back of me that time. He closed the door and coming back, picked his violin up from the table. Sitting down in the chair nearest him, he fondled the instrument. He leaned over the table and opened a small box, helped himself to a small square of resin, run- 'r's-ag il.-Il'l'L..ld7

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iii? OH! MY HAT! I BY RUTH MARCUS I 0 2 , . O C l'...ii. HE sun is shining, the sky is beautiful, life is wonderful . . . and then it happens. A little burst of wind, rollicking gaily along, sneaks up from behind you, and somehow or other, despite your guaranteed-wind-resisting hat pin and the elastic band meant for just such emergencies, manages neatly to creep in between these contrivances and, without further ado, dis- lodges your chapeau from its moorings. Frantically y-ou clutch the cursed bit of headgear and mutter imprecations against the beastly wind, which immediately ceases once it has accomplished its diabolical task. Alas! Your contortions and hectic efforts were of no avail-up she goes and over the fence! I doubt if there is any other feeling equal to that horrible con- fusion which overcomes you, as you slowly feel your dignity ebb, leaving you stranded and foolish, denouncing all creation, and won- dering just what the next move should be. Swallowing your mortifi- cation, you kneel on the pavement and thrust an arm through the bars of the fence, having deposited your books in a neat pile on the ground beside you. And again, alas! Your history book, which was on top, has slipped off, and opened up, and your precious papers, scores of 'em, are flying gaily down the street, without ever pausing for so much as a by-your-leave. Gustily you sigh, and resignedly resume the operations for re- covery, and after a few futile attempts, you finally succeed in rescu- ing the blamed hat. With another sigh, this time of relief, you rise from your ignominious position, preparatory to replacing the truant, when you are assailed by the appalling probability of its blowing off again. You are consequently seen walking home several minutes later, hat in hand, having persuaded yourself that your coiffure has achieved the proper wind-blown aspect, and you really do like the feel of the wind blowing through your hair anyway. 67'lilE- lL..ll'l'l-l-4

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ning it along the strings of the violin. That d-one, he put the in- strument back in its case and rose. He then extinguished the light and softly left the room. After the last course had been finished, Mrs. Rogers pressed him to get his violin and play, because everyone was more than eager to hear him. He got his violin from his room. He stood before them, well-poised and very sure of himself. Women breathed sighs, and men grudgingly gazed in admiration at the famous figure. He started to play. Softly lilting notes stole from the violin as the player caressed the strings with the bow. It was a weird taunting melody, straight from the heart of the jungle. The thunder of the lion's roar, the screeching of tropic birds, denizens of the jungle calling to their mates, shadows mingling with the rippling of the murky river waters, all blended in the music that Eric Lan- sing drew forth from his violin. Toward the end of the song, he seemed a little nervous, less sure of himself than when he first started to play. A green pallor, ghastly as the mark of death spread over his face. The guests sat in electric silence, sat fascinated by the music that brought tribal dances and the beating of tom-toms to their minds. Lansing began to play faster now, moving in rapid crescendo. He looked like an African voo-doo medicine man working himself into a frenzy. The hands that had awed thousands by melodies they had drawn from the violin trembled, they grasped the bow and instrument so firmly that the knuckles grew white under the strain. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. With obvious effort he drew the bow across the strings and ended the song. The audience was silent in strained uneasiness. Sporadic handclaps rang rout, but they were suddenly choked by the feeling of an unexplainable terror. Ladies and gentlemen, the name of the composition you have just heard was the Symphony oft. With .a low moan he pitched forward flat on the floor, writhing and clutching his throat, and digging his nails into the carpet for support. For a moment nothing was said or done. Such an action had come too quickly for the entranced group. Two men nearest him rushed to the sprawled ngure. Terror and horror distorted their features. What had once been a strikingly handsome face was now a livid, twitching mask. The stricken man tried to raise himself but failed, falling back into the arms of the man holding him. 8 l'l--IE il-.ll'l'L.aI-Q