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

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all through the day. Pupils often arrive at a class after orchestra practice a tritle late, Tor, alter all, you just can,t wallc away leaving Mr. Tschialcowslcy in the middle of the Fourth Symphonvl The science oi writing and spealcing is taught in the schools, because the more we express ourselves--that is, the more we show other people what we Feel and thinlc-the more we do Feel and thinlc, and the more Iun we have in feeling and thinlcing. But I would teach children to read notes as they learn to read their language, and give them an instrument with their First pencil. Perhaps when I am a dictator, I shall. CAROL CCE, '4O. SPRING A little girl straddled a long, low willow limb overhanging the lagoon. Some- times she Ioolced at the pale green leaves, or at her older sister, who was sitting on a Iower branch precariously near the muddy water, or still Further down the banlt, where her mother, wearing a Flowery purple hat, traced designs in the sandy ground with a Icnubbly sticlt. LooIc,', the little girl shouted and almost Iost her balance as she watched a mother duclc leading her brood into the thin foliage of one of the nearby islands. She almost Iost it a ain when a beady-eyed squirrel brushed her with his tail. Come, Iet's go. QThe mother threw away her sticlc. But the children continued to sit Iilce owls. Did you hear me? The mother held up their coats. They moved slightly in the warm sunshine. Come, we'II get something cool to drink. With a thud the children landed beside her on the sandy banlc. SALLY MITCHELL, '41 H E R M A N Zella came down the path, her iat blaclc body swaying from side to side. I-Ier pudgy hand clutched the newly sharpened razor in the pocI4et oI her blue and white checlced gingham dress. When she reached the whitewashed baclc Ience, she stopped. Peering over into the next yard, her blaclc eyes snapping, she Iound her prey. WomanI you come heahf' Turning suddenly, a tall, thin negress regarded her with sullen eyes. She ap- proached the fence slowly, her head bent and her hair bushy about her face. When she reached the Fence, she Ioolced up, and stared at the other woman quietly. Zella glared at her, UIViy man, he was not at home last night. Neither was you.U The negress shoolc her head silently. Zella continued, HWoman, you was out with my manf, The negress nodded her head briefly. Zella drew from her pocltet the razor. As the sun struclc it, it threw its light into the other negress' face. She stared at Zella with frightened eyes. Zella Tirst Ioolced at her and then at the razor. The negress gave one long wail and tore baclc to her kitchen. Zella watched her with triumphant eyes, turned and wallced back up the path. SALLY MITCHELL, '4'I. THE BITTER TRUTH REVEALED IN SNATCHES Thursday 6:30 I3. M. Mr. Dunsworthy emerged from his club, humming a tune Irom HCarmen,'. l-Ie turned and waII4ed brislcly down Michigan Avenue. I-Iis neat and precise English evening clothes Fitted him to the most minute detail, and his clean shaven Iace was long and British. Perhaps he was getting rather stout around the waist: perhaps he did have a bald spot, quite a big bald spot, but no one T2

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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

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would ever notice these with his well-fitted clothes and toupee. The fact remains that Mr. Dunsworthy considered himself a young and attractive man. So he whistled and hummed as he continued on his way toward the house of Martha, his modern American l-leartthrob. l'le bustled up the steps and rang the bell. While he stood adjusting his tie he thought what an attractive sight he would be when the door opened. But the bitter truth catches up with us all, and so it was to be in the case of Mr. Dunsworthy. The door burst open, Mr. Dunsworthyys jaw dropped. There stood Martha in a skirt and sweater, sport shoes, and a sport hat. uOhl+Er if l came too early, l mean ah-er. Go ahead and get dressedlu, stammered Mr. Dunsworthy. NGet dressed?H exclaimed Martha. lim all ready. Come on, we're going to xloe's jitterbug Dance Contest. And they did. 9:30 P. M. An hour and a half later Mr. Dunsworthy gasped and panted as he Suzy-Qued around the dance floor. l-lis feet hurt, his head ached, and his neck was all raw from peckin'. Now letls go to l?iverview. , said Martha. UWhat now? Er-a that's a jolly good idea , agreed Mr. Dunsworthy, wiping his steaming face with a very battered and torn handkerchief. l-lis stuffed shirt was wilted, his tails hung in a tired fashion. But think of going homer? Not Mr. Duns- worthyl l-le was young, and he could do whatever young people did. l-le loved Martha and he could keep up with her. 'l'l:00 P. M. Same night. Mr. Dunsworthy careened around the Hwhirling turns at Riverview, his face an odd shade of green, his hands weakly clutching the sides of the car. The torture chamber finally stopped, and Mr. Dunsworthy, heaving a sigh of relief, was just staggering out of it when Martha said, uQh let's go again, Cuddles. l love it.', i'Oh, Ch, certainly, l'd be charmed, but please donit call me Cuddles. My namhe ig Rercivalf' gasped Mr. Dunsworthy, thinking all the time, HMy stomach, my ea . Friday. 'l:00 A. M, Mr. Dunsworthy crawled out of the twisted wreck that had once been a car, and looked weakly around for Martha. -lhere she was in the glare of the crippled headlights, sitting on a fence and calmly smoking a cigarette. HQh Cu-er, Per-, Mr. Dunsworthy, l thought you were dead. llm so glad to see you. l'leavensl Your hair is all gone. , exclaimed Martha. 11:00 A. M. Visiting hours at County Hospital for the Weak and Wounded. Mr. Dunsworthy peered at his friend from the mass of bandages around his head. And sou, he continued, ul discovered that cruel, young little Martha was too much for me. Er-well, maybe, l was too old for her. At any rate l found the bitter truth but l lost my toupeef' ADA BLANC-lE WRIGLEY, '41 Estate of Maximovky County of Borosna mated of Cfihirrlegev on ay, pri 'l0, 1916 Dearest Greataunt, This is the first letter l have written since my return from St. Petersberg two days ago. It has been so lonely here, father goes from estate to estate inspecting crops, paying the peasants their wages, and is at home only on Sundays, when even then he spends the morning attending to the estate. Sunday l sat in his office and watched him giving out wages. l-leavens, what a mass of people he employsl The lawn was spotted with them, at least three hundred peasants and so many clerks. Father had been up since dawn, and he did not finish till after midday. lhen, we all had tea on the verandah, and mother and father made me tell about everything l did in St. Petersberg and what professor Wilhelm thinks of my progress in music, l-le seems to approve of me, but insists that l do not play the Russian School till l have had more thorough experience with Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart. l am fond of Bach, but Beethoven and Mozart do not suit my temperament, l think. l'lerr Wilhelm is a burly fellow, and goes about in the cold and snow hatless, with only a short jacket and woolen shawl to protect him from the weather. 73