Rye Neck High School - Scraps Yearbook (Mamaroneck, NY)

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RYE NECK HIGH SCHOOL Vol.. VI. MAMARoNr1cK, N. Y. Edited by the Senior Class JUNE, 1928 No. 3 Fifty ce11ts a copy EDITORIAL STAFF Editor-in-Chief .......... Andrew Kauppi Assistant Editors May Coakley ............ .lohn Landsiedel Anna Curtin ............. Violette Martin Dorothy Fitch ........... Donald Stevens Clara Wendel Business Managers Michael Auleta ............. Milton Glatzl Typists Ruth Clarke ................. Ruth Gunn Hazel Coakley .... Marion Hains Anna Curtin ............... Vera Leppert EDITORIAL June is hereg Commencement will soon be hereg the school year seems to be practically overg but still there is a feeling of expectancy in the air. What is the cause of this? Scraps is coming off the press! VVe hope that the expectations of every- one will be fulfilled by this June edition of Scraps, and we have labored continually to that end with the best of our ability The literary endeavors of the Seniors, many of which are laudable, are presented to the pub- lic in this issue. There is included also abundant news concerning the school and student activities, the faculty and athletics. After having been in the high school four years, the Seniors seem to have become all one family with the members of the facul- ty, andthe school building has become a veritable home to them. The teachers have aided the students in an extremely generous manner, and the students have not hesitated to accept their assistance or advice. The varied activities of the school have helped weld the school, faculty and students into a seemingly inseparable mass. Therefore, it is quite natural that the Sen- iors should feel thankfulness to the faculty. and also sorrow, upon leaving the school to search out their own way in life. -The Editor. THESE LAST DAYS The long-expected days of June have come, But we are not so sure we wish them here. A while ago they seemed so far away, For then we thought they never would arrive. Reality succeeded dreams. We found That distance makes a view more beautiful. VVC never knew we liked the school so much Nor did we guess how good the teachers were, Till June the dire thought did bring, That soon the ways would part to never meet. -Andrew Kauppi AN EDITORIAL Another year has ended and another Sen- ior class is about to be graduated. No one who has not reached the end of the last year can realize the mingled feelings of joy and sorrow which one experiences. It must be true that the human mind is perverse and unable to adjust itself to circumstances which are forced upon it and not entered into will- ingly. What better proof of this can be of- fered than the example of the student- eagcr to leave until the time docs finally come to go-then wishing he could just au- tomatically grow slnall and travel right over the course once more. -Donald Stevens i TO A MUSICIAN You stand upon the high platform. As far as clouds from me, And from your inner soul perform VVondcr of melody. But still you're not so far apart VVhen you can wring the listener's heart. VVe hear produced in tones most true In thrilling harmony The things that we have long lived thru, Joy, pain, and agony. You play in eestacy so real The things that we can only feel. -May Coakley

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SPRING IS HERE Well, we have with us again the season of babbling brooks and chirping chickadees. I wonder if anything new can be said on the subject? Here's an attempt. I was walking up Tompkins Avenue hill the other evening fthe far end, near Post Road,j when there came to my ears, very clearly the sound of music from, one of the radio stores of the village. At the same time I could hear, distinctly, the voices of the people in a house l was passing, raised in pleasant discussion. It occurred to me that this couldn't happen on a winter evening. During winter people keep their windows pretty tightly closed, with shades drawn dowkn, to keep out the cold. Store keepers have heavy doors installed, which quickly swing to when a customer enters, letting in as little draft as possible. During winter people go around tightly bundled up in their fur coats, with their hats pulled down over their eyes and muffs on their ears. And, sad to relate, their general social aspect is much the same, rather self-contained, and too busy with their own problems to go out of their wav to greet a friendg just a little bit icik- lish . With the arrival of Spring all this is changed. Thick, uncompromising wood and glass are replaced by nice, breezy. open screens. The barriers that separated the people during winter are cast aside. On a spring' evening a person can even sit com- fortably on his own front porch, and con- verse with a neighbor. likewise situated on his porch. We are all drawn more closelv together in the world of nature, breathing in the same air and listening to the same sounds. And simultaneously with the opening of doors and Windows, there takes place, it seems to me, an opening- of hearts. Maybe all this accounts for that glorious 'Spring is here' feeling. that, in the words of the popular song, makes us want to Yip out, and yell 'Hooray'! -May Coakley

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l w A FANTASY It was in the town of Cremona, the year 1630. Nicolo Amati had become one of the brightest stars in the fiery constellation around the sun of violin-making, then at its glorious zenith. The master, in the -un- selfishness of his musical love, had given to Pietro, a poor young man with a talent and passion for music, one of his greatest violins. It was an instrument with the elegance of design in curve and scroll, the fiery, glow-M ing varnish, and the exquisite purity and delicacy of tone that belong exclusively to the Amati school. To the dark-eyed, hungry Pietro this violin was the embodiment of life, love and God. It was his only passion. It was his fulfillment. In his bare, ugly room, he would place it lovingly to his chin and pour out his soul in melody. It alone could sympathize with him. Only when he was playing it was life worth living. But his evil genius appeared in the guise of his step-mother Teresa. She sold the violin to a foreigner traveling thru the val- ley of the Po. Pietro, separated from his only love, died of a broken heart. Thru the years that followed, the soul of Pietro, reincarnated in many different bodies, kept up the search for its complement and fulfillment, the Amati. In various ages, iu various places, the music-loving world was startled and intrigued by a dark young man, who played always on a different violin, al- ways mysteriously, questioninglyg looking for that which he found not, futilely seeking for expression where there was no sympathy. And the Amati, thru the ages, passed from hand to hand, likewise puzzling the world of music. For, tho the experts could find no flaw, no violinist, however great, was able to draw out the depth of beauty that must lie within. So it came to be called the Enchant- ed Violin, waiting for the master hand that would break the spell. But for ages the two never met. In the beginning of the twentieth century, Pietro was born again, in Italy, to continue the task assigned to his eternal soul. By his twentieth year, his musical ability had at- tracted universal attention, and he was re- quested to give a violin solo at the San Carlo theatre of Naples. As usual, he had no special choice of an instrument. His friend and patron, Baron Rossini, promised to bring him a violin of great fame, that he had recently purchased from a traveling English- man. The night of the performance came, and Rossini met Pietro backstage. The Baron had with him an old-fashioned, wooden case. Jietro opened it with his usual eager anti- cipation. The case had been relined in re- cent years, and there, against the scarlet vel- vet of it, lay a violin of exquisite workman- ship, like a fiery, yellow tongue of flame against red embers. Tenderly, tremblingly, Pietro lifted the violin. Passions and recollections of ages past stirred within him. The call boy knocked at his door. Hastily tuning, he took his position on the stage. As he placed the instrument to his chin, a thrill passed over his whole body. It was followed by a feeling of familiar com- fort. He played the opening strains of Shumann's Traumerie. The audience looked at each other with wondering faces. This was more than mere mastery of an in- strument, it was absolute sympathy, the man and violin were as one. Then they ceased to look at each other. and while some watched the boy, others sat with eyes closed, trans- ported from all the troubles of lifc to a land of perfect joy and peace, the peace of a task completed. Amidst a perfect, sanctified silence, Pietro played the last delicate strains with a loving, lingering touch. Then, having expressed every remnant of the passion for which he had lived, contentedly he fell to the floor, the violin under him. They had reached the ful- fillment. Somewhere, amidst golden celestial spires. the spirit of a dark-eyed bov plays heavenly music to God and the angels, on the soul of a. violin. -May Coakley INSEPARABLES Willard and his compact. Clara and her basket-ball Ted and his genuine laugh. West and Milton. Marge and her permanent. Eva and her sweet smile. May and an imaginery dictionary. John and his saxaphone. Vera and her lisp. Charles and his Sophomores -Mary Borel Page Four