Latin School of Chicago - Sigillum Yearbook (Chicago, IL)

Page 44 text:

CE'1'oN '19, IN PR RA ETERY, 15 ARD W BY Ho mom A SERIES of OLD CHICAGO REs1DENcEs 'ORIAN H0LsES,.-XI.1'rH0GRAPH '1 OLD VIC C5 as fc U : U In 0 Ld !-' Lf I- f-4 I.. Z .-. !- cr 'ff I-ll 3 fc M Q U LJ F4 Z z :u z -1: z o H 1- U z 7 Q L14 o 1- U La s- : U CC ffl

Page 43 text:

SIGILLUM Now to a coxswain life must be glorious, for think how it thrills him to crouch way back in that narrow seat of his, a few inc es off the water, eight sturdy lads in front rowing him along, and all he has to do is watch their blades paternally and suggest improve- ments. Is this not a pleasant way to spend an afternoon? Aye! a pharaoh was never rowed more royally down the Nile. The boat of a pharaoh was a heavy, most unwieldy thing, whereas this sixty- one foot shell of not three hundred pounds,-here is a delicate contrivanceg a sensitive, an almost living body. This body the little coxswain rules. And he loves to hear the Hthrrumpll' when eight long oars shoot from the water, leaving whirling pools of white behind, to bellow out HCATCH! STROKEIU, if some poor wherry lies ahead, and then to watch it flounder out of danger. He even ponders the abundant food he might well provide the Charles, if only a notion seized him to spear things at his will. Moreover, how distinguished he must feel when riding beneath an arch, or past a float, or anywhere that there be lookers-on. For on such occasions will the crew always row smartly Without goading on his part. What intuition quickens his men to top-hole efforts ?A For- sooth the blessed bunkv in each of them inspires a noble piece of rowing,-when other eyes are on them. Little wonder that with these manifold entertainments, a cox will smash into a bridge, and have coaches at the top of their lungs suggest unpleasant things,- eloquent, unfinished ejaculations which leave him in a quandary. Heigh-ho! 'tis all in a day's paddle. A goodly sight indeed to watch the crews return when dark- ness has come down upon the river, and lights blink from bridge, from boat-house float-as in a work from Pennel. Crews in the distance seem blurred objects moving slowly on the face of the water. A beam of light may show a momentary silhouette of oars- men, and that is-all. But on the boat-house float, what weird mingling of long shells borne by their crews up toward the racks, of running managers with lanterns, of men who carry in the oars across their broad shoulders, of coaches yelling to direct the shells that wait their turn out in the dark. Then when a coxswain gets his chance to approach, has guided the boat forward alongside the float,-the rowers hurry to have showers and be done. And so they leap out of the shell and, struggling, toss it high over their heads. Water drenches down on them, and all tread gingerly on the wet boards. Though socks are wringing wet, the crew laugh and make way for other crews of the line. Certainly a Rembrandt should be granted to our time, that he may paint in feeble lantern- glows and blended umber,-a coach or two with yellow, flashing oilskilg and youths with flashing, rounded limbs!

Page 45 text:

From Madrid Tn london IDOUGLAS DIES Douglas Dies, ,3O, Harvard I34, is a United Press correspondent in London, England. The following article is reprinted from the Newspaper World, Oct. 737. From midnight to 8 a.m., I receive news in London telephoned from every capital on Continental Europe, or nearly all of them. These include usually calls from Paris, Berlin, Rome, Vienna, Geneva, Moscow, and that focal point of the eyes of the world these days, Madrid in Spain. Although the Moscow line is generally considered worse than calling Junior to dinner, Madrid now is even more difficult. When our switchboard connects me, I have to argue with the London operator, an excitable Parisian and a suspicious Spaniard-then I hear the slightest whisper from our correspondent, saying: United Press, London?,' I recognize the voice of Irving Pflaum, with whom I have talked nightly for six months, but never seen. I bellow Yes four or five times before he is convinced, through so many relays. Then he begins: 6'Dateline Madrid . . . In the vicinity of Huesca Cthat's spelled H for Harry, U for Uncle . . .J . . .M But the line fades. The normal telephone lines to Madrid have been out of order since the beginning of the war. Present connections run to Bar- celona, through Paris, thence to Madrid. I cannot speak Spanish, but I continue shouting: Hello . . . Hello! until Paris comes through with One minutef' and reconnects us. Pflaum meanwhile is giving his third story, but must begin again. He is good-natured, insisting again on spelling out Huesca as above, althoughbothof us know the identity of the Spanish town perfectly. The censorship in Spain is tighter than a pneumatic vise. But our censor, or Hawkshaw, is human. Once when Pflaum was read- ing a notice on the protection from various gases having Spanish names, I asked him which meant mustard gas and which tear gas. He was not familiar with the technical Spanish names, but Old Hawkshaw at his elbow spoke right up, breaking in to give me all the details in spite of the fact that I only wanted to know which was which. Another time Pflaum spelled the name of a town out, ending it with . . . and E for Edward? The censor broke in with: