Massachusetts College of Art and Design - Palette and Pen Yearbook (Boston, MA)

Page 19 text:

Hadar was very much astonished, though you never would have guessed it. He looked just as though a coffee bean jinni was no novelty to him. “I wish to go to the festival at Hijaz on a beautiful white horse.” You never will believe this. I can’t believe it, and I was there. (Oh, hidden, of course, behind a gum tree.) Yema began to grow whiter and whiter. At first Hadar thought he must have eaten too much of the sweet grass, but then his tail began to grow. A long and beautiful tail it was, and quite an improvement, too. Strangest of all, Hadar gasped to see, right there on Yema’s shoulders were two little wings. They looked suspiciously like ostrich feathers, but Hadar didn’t mind. He liked ostriches well enough. As for the strange little man, he was gone. Hadar removed the coffee bean from his mouth and polished it. Then he put it in his upper left-hand inside pocket and mounted his beautiful horse. With a happy shout they were off. Yema’s nose pointed straight to Hijaz. And Hadar’s hand lovingly clutched his upper left-hand inside pocket. He was a very hap py boy. And Yema was a very blissful ex-mule. RUTH K. DOHERTY ??? I wonder As I’m torn asunder By this and that And under The spell of all this talk Of art and education. If someone hasn’t made A blunder In letting me study Here — I wonder. GERTRUDE MAXIM

Page 18 text:

YEMA Hadar was miserable. You would have been miserable, too, if you had been in Hadar’s place. True, it was cool in the shade of the huge date palm, but Hadar was hot inside — hot and bitter as the coffee bean in his mouth, which he shifted to make room for a sigh, a woeful sigh. Yema was only a mule, so he could not understand. The cool shade of the date palm filled his mulish heart with happiness, happiness as sweet as the tender grass blade in his mouth, which he shifted to make room for a sigh, a blissful sigh. And though it’s very sad to relate, Yema was the cause of Hadar’s misery. With the setting of the sun behind the mountain of Irak would come exciting preparations for the journey of the morrow. The Ameer Mundhir ibn Mundhir had decreed a festival at Hijaz, and everyone was going. That is, everyone but Hadar. Hadar had no horse. He had only Yema. Only by hard and fast riding on their beautiful Arabian steeds could the tribe of Nabajoth, to which Hadar belonged, hope to make Hijaz for the festival. Hadar sighed again and bit viciously on his coffee bean. A wonderful thing happened. A very marvelous, superextraordi- nary thing. You won’t believe it! Right before Hadar’s very eyes ap- peared a strange little brown man, who salaamed gracefully until his turban toppled. “Who are you?’’ asked Hadar, in a quivery, quakery voice. “I am the jinni of the coffee bean,” answered the little brown man. What is your wish, my master?”

Page 20 text:

DON’T BELIEVE IT I turn out paintings day by day Whose value one must doubt; But if they have one spot that’s good, A frame will bring it out. Included in my repertoire Is many a clever notion. But who cares that for craftsmanship So long’s I have emotion! Oh color subtleties, beware! From cadmiums to umber. My major joy I find in you. All swathed in a penumbra. Some day I’ll teach a lot of kids And cheer if they’re excessive. I’ll let them paint just any way And make the trend progressive I’ll wrap a turban ’round my head And draw birds’ wings with chalk. And with dynamic symmetry I’ll show folks how to walk. Now instrumental in my art Will always be this thought: That I have learned in four years’ time To draw a freehand dot. Goodbye, Mass. Art, adieu, adieu; We join the worldly mobs. We’ll all be happy pretty soon. But first, please find us jobs. ARTHUR COPPLESTONE