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

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a auiclt glance. It was a mass of brown water stains. ln one corner the wall-paper was already hanging, wet and sticlcy, at right angles with the wall . . . l was told later that the children had been sailing boats in the tub. Little, sweet boats that they had made themselvesl What are a little paper and calcimine compared to the untrammeled self-expression of two children, l asl4 you? The second patience-tester followed closely on the heels of the first. Qne even- ing l was seated at my deslc. Bending over my physics, deeply engrossed, l heard a shrielc from the supposed direction of heaven. Stamping and yelling, my two little friends danced around the room, Hlt talces 'l0 tons of coal to haul a certain train from Washington to Philadelphia. l-low many foot-tons of energy has been set free if this coal has a heat value of T3,000 Btu. per pound? 13,000 divided by-, The stamping continued. U-divided by 2,000 times 778, no. The stamping increased. Who cares about energy set free , l snarled to myself. l'd lilce to expend a little energy, myself, on those two children. ln a particular spot, too. HT3000 times 778 divided by-w'zNuts, It wouldnlt worlt. Eiercely l crumpled up my paper and, with deadly calmness, selected a sharper pencil and a fresh sheet from my noteboolc. The stamping and shouting were awful. The two little demons sounded as if they were in their death throes. By this time l was in a white heat, grinding my teeth and staring wildly in front of me. l filled my lungs with air, l howled with all the power l could muster, SHUT UPU. The noise stopped. It has not been repeated. Emily Post must, after all, be wrong. BETTY GILLESPIE, '39, MEMORIES It was daybreal4 of an icy morning in the Connecticut hills. l opened one eye sleepily and became abruptly conscious of the scene outside the window. The next instant l had leapt out of bed, and, with a auicl4 glance at the snow all over my floor, and the swirling, eddying particles of ice outside, l dashed into my sister Sally's room. After l had pulled her head from under an inch or so of snow, we both, shivering in our nightgowns, hung out of the windows in wild excitement. This was a blizzardl l cannot tell you just how we lcnew it was a blizzard, since we had never before experienced one, but the whole landscape and the hum in the air was reminiscent of earlier childhood stories and of accounts from the natives of the winter of '88 Finally the icy chill brought us to our senses, and we pulled down the windows and rushed to lcnocl4 at the doors of the rest of the family, unconscious of the blissful excitement awaiting them outside. You can imagine how our elation grew as we discovered that there was no heat in the house, no light, no telephone, and no electricity in the electric stove for brealcfast. Later we sat before a great cracltling fire, cozy and safe from the storm of white misty clouds that were tumbling from the slty, with no toaster for toast, no boiler for brealtfast foods. lnto the glowing embers under the blazing logs we put a tin of balced beans. When this was ready, we sat about the fire and ate them with charred bits of bread for toast and, for the elders, a cup of coHee that had miraculously sur- vived a precarious balancing on the bumpy hearth and that seemed tp bring them the same joyful pleasure ofa picnic in the summer woods. We could think of nothing but the fun of this novel experience. No schooll plenty of snow for all lcinds of Arctic explorationl The next step was the thrill of digging a path through the drifts, some of which were six feet high, for, tuclced away on the top of our hill, we were completely cut off from civilization. The family formed a shovel brigade and dug, from before noon until about four o'clock. We must have been an odcl-loolting lot with our im- provised costumes. The clashing colors of our bright wool clothes--orange scarves against scarlet slcirts, every shade of green exhibited in the various coats and heavy sweaters, furpieces donned at all angles for comfortls salte rather than beauty's, and, more vivid than all, mothers violent purple muffler-this conglomeration would have been an artists' nightmare. By the time we had reached the main road, glowing and exhausted, we found ourselves faced with an unexpected and formidable sea of gleaming whiteness that was auite impassable, This was rather a discouraging 70

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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

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discovery but, not daunted, father and Sally put on snowshoes and set off for the tiny store Hup at the corner . from a usual fifteen-minute walk they returned in about two hours. By this time the snow had completely stopped, and cold, still darkness was upon us. We went to bed that night in rooms that were like iceboxes. The glittering crystals on the window, the frozen water in the flat dish on the table, and the white clouds in the room made by our breath painted a winter landscape with snow flurries, even in the house. l-lowever, with heavy blankets and fluffy comforters oiled over us, we were blissfully warm and, unaware of the frigid air, we went to s eep. The next picture is one of the happiest of all my memories, a single composite memory of all the recollections of the summer when l was five years old. A large old-fashioned Maryland house with spacious, yet cozy, rooms. Acres of woods and fields waiting to be explored. Vegetable and flower gardens, and beautiful shady trees so welcome on the hot days. The ancient and authentic Civil War cabin, where so many rainy days were spent. The little brook, bubbling merrily through the meadow, where we would fish with strings and bent pins but never catch anything. The cow, who was so gentle, but of whom l was always secretly terrified, and the little calf, who grew perceptibly everyday. The kittens secreted in the top of the barn in a nest of soft hay. The farm implements behind the barn, where one could be a farmer for hours on end by sitting on a great rusty steel monster and wiggling levers back and forth. The high haystacks to clamber up and then come sliding swiftly down. The dairy farm next door, where at four o'clock on an afternoon you could have a cup of cold glistening milk, fresh from the cooler. Running barefoot through the early morning dew to get the mail. picking cherries and wild berries and eating twice as many as you put in your baskets. All these things seem as real to me now as they did then. Memories are, after all, the most companionable of friends. KAY LAWSCN,'4O. IF I WERE DICTATOR Today it is very much in vogue to tell people how to live. Books by psychologists flood the market, the government issues pamphlets, dictators issue command, fashion decrees what we shall wear, advertisements decree what we shall eat, librarians and bookreviewers tell us what we shall read. Why, even the soda jerks no longer ask, Do you wish some dessert? but rather say, ul-low about our favorite fudge sundaef? It l were dictator l would dictate music, As a dictator l could, of course, use music for ulterior reasons, to create desired emotions. That music can do this is proved in many ways. For instance, if you have never seen ,lohnny marching to the rhythm of drum and brass, all the patriotism in him beating time to the blaring tune, at least you have felt something in your throat when your band marches up the football field, blowing hard for dear old alma mater. Music has its place also in inspiring the gentler emotions. Do you remember how Becky Sharpe, in Vanity Fair, struck the final blow at slos by singing a very melancholy song as though her heart would break? And in the days of the silent movie, would the hero have been as dashing his rescue of Golden Hair as thrilIing,w!thout the aid of Rome is Burning, or Bicycle Race, played on the old piano by the ticket seller. But l am dictating music only for its power to make people happy. And it does make them happy. Qtherwise, why do girls insist upon playing chop-sticks at every opportunity, no matter how many times they have played it before. l-low else would you explain popular music? Why are there so many folksongs? And people certainly do love to make musicl Did you ever hear a high school, or even grammar school orchestra? fhey're goodl And surprisingly, these orchestras are largely made-up of boys and girls who never had training, who, you might suppose, would have no ear for music, and no interest. No ear for music? Not interested? just watch their enthusiasm after a few monthsl And as for training-'they eat it up. No need to ask them to practice, Rather, they are apt to make nuisances of themselves hanging around the music room when they probably should be in study-hall, Tuning starts early in the morning, and the oboe can be heard sounding A at regular intervals T1