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

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first, thankfulness that it wasn't one of my family. l lay back against my pilloWS. Then contrition for the selfishness of my concern came over me. f-low awful for any- body to die on such a night. It might be all right for two such violent natures as l'leathcliffe's and Catherines, but not for such a one as poor, broken Mrs. Yoder s. It was so tragic to have lived the life of child-bearing and drudgery, never to have had any simple luxuries, never to have set foot outside of lowa with its monotonous scenery and its narrowmindedness, never to have looked at the world through another's eyes by reading a book. l was crying now. The tears were for Mrs. Yoder, for my unhappy isolation, and finally, for life unworthy of the struggle it took to live and offered at the end only the mockery of And to dust return. l was becoming quietly hysterical, but l thought l was going mad. Nothing but my own disturbing, frantic ideas circled in my head. It only there were something to read, to take me out of myself. l got up out of bed. The floor, to my bare feet, had the iciness of death with which the air now seemed full. l groped for the closet, dragged my suitcase down from the shelf, prepared, subconsciously, to go home, or any place but here. Snapping the case open caused something to fall from it. It was the Bible that mother had insisted l bring and that l had forgotten all about. l picked it up. lts very touch was soothing. Not because it was Gods book, but just because it was a book with words to be read, with somebody elsefs thoughts to think. l began to read, and was comforted. Six weeks later l got my release from the farm. Mother was delighted with my tan, my ten pounds of acquired weight, my serenity which long hours of sleep had brought about. She had never dreamed l would benefit so, physically. l didn't know, couldn't judge, for at that moment l was busy making my first acquaintance with Dickens l had a great deal of reading to catch up onl CATHERINE I-IANDLEY, '39 LIFE'S CRISES There was l standing in the doorway of my new classroom, a chubby little girl of nine, possessor of two very long pigtails and a misplaced dimple, faced with the problem of making good in this my new school. The outlook had been depressing enough when l had discovered that, because of certain deficiencies in my arcluously acquired knowledge, l would have to go back a grade, but that was as nothing compared to facing this sea of unfriendly faces. Mechanically l moved from the door, shook hands with the teacher, and, in a haze of embarrassment, took the indicated seat. Qnce there, conscious of all eyes fastened upon me, l sat and studied my shoes with a fixed concentration worthy ofa far nobler object. Until recess l retained this rigid pose, half-fearing, half-anticipating the test l knew was to come. Would l be accepted into this charmed circle, or must l remain an outsider, a social outcast, so to speak, until l was an old woman, say twenty-two or so? l had not long to wait, for judgment, in the form of a tall, thin child with straight hair pushed back a la Alice in Wonderland, followed by her cohorts, was even now bearing down on me. We gazed solemnly at each other for several moments, then the other spoke. 'lWhat , she said with a very slight severity, His your name? Ugidneyn. My examiner looked incredulous. Did you say-Sidneyf-DH There was a slight hesitation before the name as though it cost her an effort even to say the abhorred word. puzzled, l nodded. l'ler severity a definite thing now, my questioner announced sternly, U0nly little boys are named-that. Your mother must be funny. With that she turned and walked away. l understood. from now on l would be considered to come from a very bad family-people who didn't even realize the incongruity of calling a girl by a boy,s name. But as yet there was no final judgement on me, l might still hope to become friends with the other children in the class. l fervently hoped, however, that they would never hear that my brother 68

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or trapdoorswrhow did l know this exceptional family didn't consider a book more precious than gold, and was hiding it accordingly?--gradually, but conclusively, l realized that in the entire room, ironically called Hstudyn, were no books, no magazines, no papers, no pamphlets, no circulars, in short, no pieces of paper with words printed thereuponl Standing there, l realized how it must feel to be a convicted man, who before being sent to jail, imagines how it will feel to be behind the bars, thinks he has steeled himself for their horror, but, when he actually is behind them, suffers the real despair. All through my inspection of that house, l was beginning to have trepida- tions about the reading situation. but, when here in the study---ironical word--my fears proved well-founded l felt desperate. l would abandon my farm-life and go homel l-low could l spend two months without doing any reading? But l remembered, l couldn't go home. So l set about rallying myself. No use getting panicky. There had to be some way out of my predicament. Reason told me there had to be something to read, someplace in the house. The family was educated, its member couldnft help but read upon occasion. Why, they'd have to, if for nothing more than to exercise their eyes. l laughed hollowly at my own humor. Nevertheless, l was reassured. The family would take papers. l-low often l'd read of the vital interest the farmer takes in the nation's affairs, how he pores over the paper's editorials, and writes his own opinions of various polemical matters. And there would be catalogues and advertisements, which don't make such bad reading in a pinch, especially if you believe advertising has been raised to an art. The stores probably swamped the family with such things. by the end of forty-nine hours, l had rounded up everything within the radius of the farmls three hundred and forty acres, that could be read. lVlama Farmerfs con- tribution was ml'here's a catalogue around somewheref' The catalogue turned out to be a T930 Sears Roebuck one, and only half a one at that. papa Farmer gladdened my heart by telling me they did take a daily paper, but saddened me when he said it was not the metropolitan daily l had hoped for, but a country one called the 'Daily Clarionn. Really the Daily Clarionf' was much more disappointing than it sounds. Resigned to its being a country paper, l expected to be vastly amused by its journalistic style, but l wasnlt. Nowhere in it was the personal, informal touch l had expected. The paper with its first page of copied news, second of household hints, third of farm commentary and Sabbath school notes, and fourth of advertising, was simply rehashed, subject-predicate writing. Sister Farmer, who was on the verge of being converted and so had no use for the Hworldyn things, was the most sympathetic to my plight, and surreptitiously slipped me a couple of novels. lt is enough to say of them that they were an experience. Brother Farmer told me the next time they opened the one-room schoolhouse for an airing, he would let me have access to the Hlibraryn. Such was my holiday reading. With its help and the fact that man's natural instinct is to live, l survived 6:00 A.lVl. to 8:00 l3.lVl. days. The familyfs ant-like industry had a constant acceleration, and soon there was no time for anybody to talk to me, and if anybody did, l knew what he was going to say, before he said it, so limited was our conversational range. Not only did l forgo talking, but l began to be self-conscious about playing with the eleven cats as we, the cats and l, were the only ones on the farm not engaged in productive work. And then one night a storm broke, a real storm with all the paraphernalia of livid gashes of lightning, of rain, thickly steady, of rolls of thunder colliding in gigantic claps, and of the outside noises when branches were stripped from thetrees. -lhe cattle bawled, cried, and tried to break out. Not quite conscious of what was happening, just aware of an angered Nature, l lay in bed. Suddenly came the shrill, penetrating voice of the telephone, shocking me to wide-awakeness. 'lwo o'clock at night and somebody was telephoningl l-lad something happened to mother? Agony of waiting, listening to feet hastily shoved into shoes, stumble down the stairs. Along the hall, bedroom doors creaked open. A moment of pause punctuated by the click of the receiver as it was taken down. A murmured response, sudden inflection of surprise, the lapse into the condoling tone, and then Mother Farmer called up the stairs, Nlhat was Emma. lVlrs. Yoder's dying at last. ll the storm lets up, llm going overf, 67

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is named jinks. That, l was sure, would mark my family as not only odd but well ripe for the local insane asylum. Classes began again, and, conscious that l had not been a great success in my first encounter with the unknown, l felt extremely grateful for the smile of the girl whose book l had been told to share. Via notes l soon learned that her name was Lucy l'licks, and, as l carefully refrained from mentioning mine, we were getting on swimmingly when suddenly l was called upon to recite. Now anyone will admit that this was the grossest injustice. l had always considered it part of the unwritten code of the schoolroom that no new girl should be called upon to recite her first day, and l was consequently completely relaxed when the blow fell. As a result, my recitation was a horrible failure. Sitting down at last, l felt l.ucy draw slightly away from me. This too l understood. l had been discovered to be dumb, not just nicely, ingratiatingly dumb, but downright stupid. This, coupled with my unfortunate name, had turned the scales and l was to be an outsider. It would take something really brilliant to erase the bad impression, l had already made,and,rack my brains as l might, l could think of nothing sufficiently impressive lt was not until l was mournfully descending the stone steps on my way home that l had my great inspiration. There, kneeling on the ground, were l.ucy and the girl with the Alice in Wonderland hair, engaged in a game of marbles. Marbles! Why hadnft l thought of that before? l-lere was l, the Midwestern marble champion, worried about howto make an impression. flinging my coat and books to the ground l joined the game, seemingly shy as befittecl a newcomer but inwardly lull of con- fidence. Two hours later found me walking companionably home with Lucy, explain- ing a trifle condescendingly the Meeker Marble System. At last l belonged. SIDNEY MEEKER, '39 IS EMILY POST WRONG ltfs the little things that count, little things we love and cherish, and little things which drive us crazy. l shall tell you about one little thing which drove me crazy. l ask you to put yourself in my position, before you pass judgement on me as an irritable fussbudget. l have, living in the apartment above me, a family. They have two boys. Now if everyone could Fully appreciate that last statement, there would be no need for this anecdote, but as there may be a few fortunate individuals who do not realize the calamity of having, living above them, two boys, both between the ages of two and five, I'Il go on. Within the first week of their possession of the apartment, l saw those two children, and they were darlings, two cuter little tricks never existed. The first time l saw them was in the elevator. They both backed shyly into a corner and stood looking up at me from under the blondest of blonde eyebrows. l'laloes encircled their heads, wings flopped, and butter wouldn't have melted in their mouths. They were so cute, that in spite of myself l had to smile first at them and then meaningly at their nurse. Little did l know those two small dissemblers. A week passed after the first meeting, and all was rosy. Two weeks passed, and then things began to happen. Qne afternoon l heard a sound like marbles being dropped from a considerable height on to the bathroom floor. Well, l passed this event. l passed over it when it was repeated. l ignored several relay races played with what seemed to be cannon balls, up and down the hall. Hhlust lively kidsm, l said to myself, and sat back and recalled the times l used to run up and down halls. But then l was a rather quiet child. The first real trouble caused by my two cherubic acquaintances occurred one night just before dinner. l had finished washing my hands when, on stepping over the threshold of the bathroom into the hall, l felt a drop of water fall on my hand. Where had it come from? l could remember wiping my hands, and wiping them rather well, at that, the towel bore evidence of the fact. Rather puzzled, l stepped back into the bathroom. Now l could see the water falling, at first just a drop or two, then a regular curtain. Dashing through the falls to my room, l gave the ceiling 69