New York University School of Education - Education Violet Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 147 text:

Al Tea+ro Mama, dice Margarita, Al teatro quiero ir Con Violera mi amiguita Y poderme diverrirf' Su mamita, Dona Ana Le dice con atencion: Que al teatro va manana, Si ella aprende su lecci6n. Margarita muy atenta, Aprende bien su leccion, Y se halla muy contenta, Porque va a la funcion. Ya para ir a la cama, Le dice a su mama, Que le guarde el boleto y el Programa, Que le trae su papa. Ella vestida sencilla, Se va en busca de Violera, Quien la espera en la taquilla, Y le compra un bolero de lunera. Las dos muchachas muy lisras, Son las primeras a entrar, Para hablar con los artistas, Y el espanol pracricar. Las dos se olvidan del nombre, Del teatro donde estan, Y le preguntan a un hombre, Quien las mira con afan. Loco y complacienrc el hombre, Les dice de buena fe, Que el teatro tiene el nombre, Del buen santo San jose. 147

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Armislice Day a+ New York Universiry Sfuclenls Honor 'lhe Dead By GEORGE W. DVORYAK ODAY we are here and tomorrow we are gone. Today we are heroes acclaimed by the public and cheered by the mob, tomorrow our corpses rot and the mob has found new heroes. America is so busy in developing her resources, expanding her financial stability, and molding better citizens that she frequently lacks time to stop and ponder upon the past. But America, despite her go-getting attitude, does stand by on Armistice Day and pay honor to those brave men who have fought in the fields of France, lighting for individual liberty, for popular democracy, and for international peace. Every year when this day comes, Americans dolf their hats at the stroke of eleven and for one minute they pause to pay homage to those who have died for a noble cause. This year America paused to honor her dead as she has often done in the past. Throughout the nation the speed of industry was slackened. In some cities this day was celebrated more appropriately than others. Bands, parades, speeches, and banquets reminded those who had forgotten that, though men were gone from our midst, memories of them are still in, our hearts. Here at New York University students and faculty both stopped in their work and joined the nation in honoring the heroes of our country. Elevators stopped, classes were temporarily suspended, and everyday thoughts were banished, as thoughts of the struggle for democracy filled the mind. The scene was most impressive. The silence which filled the buildings reminded one of the silence of a cathedral. If there had been an organ in the school to resound with the sad music of the Requiem or Nearer My God to Thee, we could not have been more impressed. If we had never stopped before in contemplation of the meaning of this holiday, we could not but stop this year. The scene that met the observer's eye was most touching. Here was the student whose heart is usually so occupied with lectures, grades, and credits, here we saw the student and instructor as they met on common ground. All we saw on that day was mankind pausing to pay homage to mankind of yesterday. We recalled those heart stirring words of Edmund Burke, Society is a noble compact between the dead and the living, and the unborn. The part played by New York University on this day showed that our college is Hlled with Americans who are united to the Americans of yesterday by a strong and sympathetic bond. We have honored our fellow countrymen. Perhaps some day our countrymen will also honor us. Let us remember the words of Daniel Webster as we honor our countrymen: I was born an American, I live an American, and I shall die an American. 146

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A Conlrasl IFTH AVENUE is decked out in gala attire. Smart, inviting shops with their vari- colored displays of perfumes, jewelry, shawls, gowns, are filled with eager shoppers. Brisk throngs of happy people crowd the already crowded street. Smiling-all of them-tall, thin men who look like fashion plates, pretty women in luxurious cars, apple- cheeked children clad warmly. Even the sleek, well-groomed dogs in the cars look on the world with a cheerful benevolence. Colorful, laughing, noisy, crowded-that is Fifth Avenue! A few short blocks away, a street is also crowded. But a grim silence hangs over all. Here, too, are all kinds of people-tall, short, old, young-but all are shabby. Not a smile appears. All have faces that are set and pale, eyes that lack luster. Their steps are slow and indifferent. This is not a crowd of happy holiday shoppers. This is only a mere handful of New York's large army of homeless and hungry, waiting to form a bread line! Only a few short blocks away from lively, luxurious Fifth Avenue, in the wealthiest city of the world! Youlh OUTH is not a time of life: it is a state of mind. It is not a matter of red cheeks, red lips, and supple knees, it is a quality of imagination, a temper of the will, a vigor of emotions. It is the freshness of the deep springs of life. Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over the love of ease. This often exists in a man of fifty, more than in a man of twenty. Nobody grows old by merely living a few years. People grow old only by deserting their ideals. ' Years wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, doubt, self-distrust, fear, and despair: these are the long, long years that bow the heart and turn the grieving spirit back to dust. Whether sixty or sixteen, there should be in every human being's heart the lure of wonder, the sweet amazement at the stars and star-like things and thoughts, the undaunted challenge of events, the unfailing child-like appetite for what next, and the joy of the game of living. One is as young as his faith, as old as his fears, as young as his hope, as old as his despair. In the central place of one's heart is an evergreen tree, its name is Love. So long as it flourishes, a person is young. When it dies, he is old. In the central place of every heart is a wireless station. So long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer, grandeur, courage, and power from God and from fellowmen, so long is one young. 148