Robert Louis Stevenson School - Circus Yearbook (New York, NY)

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DOGS AT 7:30 . , -. y' , I 3 at ,vhi ,,, X st- xy 5 ' A Ninety-sixth and Fifth is a busy crosstown intersection - . f Y J' but at 7:30 in the morning when only a few busses rumble I ef Q ff XV I. Ti . U xt I f 'I . N avi. 5 IYN fr through the tunnels and a couple of trucks roll down di fn towards the East river, that's when this corner becomes H something special in New York City. Starting at 7:15 they begin to arrive - little old women with well-kept pekenese - sleepy girls with cockers and scotties who keep frisking N ahead, chasing the leaves - puffing business men with avr DW U Ll ' 5 ,., 9 c.f i :N their wives' poodles. By 7:30 the corner is awake with barks and helloes and entangled leashes. The more energetic masters get together to give their dogs a run around the reservoir. The rest of us drift into little groups to comment on the weather, and how late we stayed up last night, and how the Russian wolfhound is the dumbest dog and buzz, buzz, buzz - bark, bark, bark. A tall boy with an Irish setter comes down the path, he's one of the energetic ones - he's been out since 6:30. The group of slee y girls swear they're going to get up at 6:30 somehow and lug their dogs around the reservoir, even ilp they collapse in the attempt. Earnestine strides up in her riding outfit with her boxer I-lansaf' She waves to me and we climb up the hill. The dogs run loose up here and it seems like a fantastic world of pedigree dogs, and muts, and pedigree dogs who turned out runts. A cocker chases a colly across the paths and two young boys come chasing after them. Mike, Mike -here. An elevator man is being pulled along by two smug little dachshunds, one in a green knitted jacket, the other in red. Hey-You comes galloping up to us, and drops panting at my feet. The wind had died down and the sun was getting warmer. At 8:50, Ernestine and I shot down the hill with dreams of delightful sausages and scrambled eggs dancing through our minds. Ieeahe Einnersfein THE COUNTRY I rode the horse to the top of the hill, the wind blew through my hair. Never before had I felt such a. feeling of complete freedom. I had been born and raised in the City and had never lived in the country before. I was staying at my friend's farm. I got off the horse, after tying the horses reins to a tree, I stood on the hill and looked down at the green countryside and the farmhouses which dotted it. How free it was here, away from the noise and constant hurrying of the City. How friendly the people were. One day the cows had broken the fence around the pastures and gotten out. People from all the neighboring farms called up and told us about it. By the time we got to the pasture, a neighbor had already rounded up the cattle for us. When threshing time came, all the farmers helped one another out by working for each other. There was never time to loaf. We got up at 5:00 A.M. to milk the cows, and our work wasn't done till 9:00 at night. One of our jobs was cooking the meals for the farm hands. If we needed any food, all we had to do was go out and pick it - milk and eggs could be obtained by taking a short walk to the barn. After the meals and the dishes were done and the house cleaned, we went out and worked in .the fields. It was hard but satisfying work. Waking up from my deep reverie, I realized it was getting dark and I would have to get back by milking time. Untying the reins from the tree, I rode down the hill. UA.. IGM

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'? j -is fs f I f n 417 3 March I9 Dear Ann I have just received your letter. College sounds heavenly -- all you have to worry about are term papers, exams and more dates than you can handle. What a normal prosaic lifel Im going crazy' let s make no bones about it! I planned to go to college Cwe were to have a better world, you knowb but I'm always refused. Will I ever get to college! Remember when we planned the kind of colleges we'd go to. They'd have beautiful campuses handsome males and wonderful profs. Now 1'll settle for anything - but the colleges don't seem to want to settle for me. Every afternoon I sit down to record my favorite books, the exact color of my hair the pigment of my skin, the languages we don't speak at home other than English and any ambitions the colleges think I ought to have. They say, will I! Every night I go to bed and have nightmares. I am sitting at a great big desk on my right are millions and millions of college catalogs and on my left are the applications. I start reading and writing all at once as fast as I can. As I write refusals start coming back at me, faster and faster - I write more and more but refusals keep on coming. It seems hopeless. Morning comes -- it's seven oclock. School today! Every day I have school and every day I worry about college. I usually console myself, After all they must take somebody, maybe I ll be lucky. But can I count on it. I m becoming desperate. What happens if I don't go to college. I could get a job. Maybe I would become a politician. After all it ought to be quite simple to do all those childish things politicians do -- filibuster to avoid an issue, fight instead of discussing problems or anything else that young people are not supposed to do. But really what can I do? There isn't too much time now and I don't want to be left holding the bag. Should I keep on sending my biography and dentist's report to Secretaries of Admissions who never read them or should I just forget it all and trust to luck. It s so hard to know what's best. Love, Zi.. 1 If you apply to enough colleges, you're bound to get in somewhere. But

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X xx' 1. Alf 4 'X 4. ,Jo l 'J i on A ? lllxm K X V ttv. u Cf , M t,r-- 'il 'V ' .ii 17x . K p ,I p ,zrgllgg .5 I i ' KA ix W g t I ,f Q I . t 5 Q j f -I, 'L X af- Wh The Theater Gommy ls An llptimist The theater was in darkness. A soft lid of dust fell over the tired eyes of the footlights. The curtains hung limply on each side of the wings giving a dismal atmosphere of the gallows. A tiny grey mouse cautiously scurried across the stage and up onto a large stretch of canvas. His tailwas his train and he sniffed his way along. The audience seats were straight and still. They appeared endless and lost their army in the darkness. Now, no place was ever more quiet. But! - what was that!! A tiny voice . . . Cno it muttered more than that of the little grey mouseb . . . there was something or . . . someone behind that scenery. A tiny speck of a figure C no taller than ten or twelve inches with his stocking cap tassel on endj darted out from behind the sets and stood in the middle of the stage floor. He stretched his arms out. Come on fellahs . . . I say . . . come on out . . . for there's trouble in the air tonight. A whole score of gommies appeared from behind the orchestra, the eaves, and the last one came out of a playbill, which lay discarded on the end of the stage. They all gathered about their leader muttering. Yeee . . . a new show opens tomorrow. There's a new show opens tomorrow. There's a big job ahead. We'll make the floor more slippery where the acrobat dancer does his spins and . . . And the seats in the third act don't squeak enough! said a fat stubby one. How about raising the microphone for the little short singer? the skinny one replied again. Or change the number of that act on that piece of scenery, answered another. Soon the ommies were bus at their mischief. The are usuall a talkative crew, of course, in their Y y Q . a own language. However, when they are at work never a sound is uttered because they are so intent in doin somethin to s il the act of a erformer so well that he or she will make u some sort of alik 8 y , Y such as: I had to leave the theater because . . The gommies know full well no true artist even says this, even if he has been foiled ten or twenty times by their efforts. In this way they eliminate false actors and the like. During rest periods their muttering goes on: Say you should have seen the trick we played on the new chorus dancer in the theater I used to work in. I loosened the straps on her toe shoes and she went out dancing, wabbling about so that she said she would never go back as a dancer. Of course, if she were a real dancer she would never have for- gotten to bring the good slippers and I would never have been able to loosen them an eighth of an inch. Come men . . . it's to work again until the morn when our tasks are complete and we've left lots of traps for the stage people! Some will stumble over them, some will fall in them, and some will see the tricks and step over them, and go on to their success. So . . . back to your jobs again . . . Yeee . . . This is why the actor attends dramatic school and studies correct pronunciation for hours. This is why the singer trains so that she may be heard, even though a gommy has raised the mike beyond her level. This is also why the dancer practices so regularly his correct positions, and, if his shoes are too slippery he sand papers them before the act. Most performers have the fear to do their talent well but few realize that fear is really the gommies! So, you see - even though the backers of a play, the directors and producers, and playwriters pull their hats down and go out and get drunk, the theater gommy never loses faith or hope in a new play until it closes. They know the real performers are always on guard against their pranks. You under- stand, now that you know them, that they're really not bad fellows at all! And . . . without them there could never be a Broadway hit! .ANNE JOJEPA