South Side High School - Optimist Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

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fojfl THE OPTIMIST ] With a little resentment, she thought of Bob, and her experience of a few hours before. For a moment she was back in the dazzling ball-room, dancing with many of her admirers, and paying little attention to Bob. With a smile of satisfaction she remembered the disap- pointed look on his face when she had refused again and again to dance with him. Yes—Ann loved to tease Bob, but she was too proud to be lectured by him or anyone else. And, furthermore, just because she had gone with him, didn’t give him any right to dictate. She felt that she would show Mr. Bob that she was not to be trifled with, and would give him a fright by slipping away. Now, however, she was paying for her im- pulsiveness. Ann was still being followed. She felt she simply couldn’t endure this suspense any longer. At the next corner, under the friendly illumination of the street light, she nervously pulled out her hat- pin. Who would ever think that this desperate looking person was little Ann Leonards? She still wore her masque costume. One black ring was still dangling from her ear. Anyone might have taken her for some heroine, posing for a moving picture, as with flashing eyes and gleaming hatpin, she wheeled round to face her tormentor. In another moment, however, Ann found herself in the strong, protecting arms of Bob. My Garden by the Sea By SARELIA HAHN I Through the labyrinth I’ve sped, by the broad linden tree Where the jewel-like jasmine grow. And morning glory nods at me. As winds through the flow’rets blow. Here children have gathered. Joyous band. To hear strange tales From the Magic Land. Rustling leaves dar.ee in the tree In my garden by the sea. II Tall grasses bow down, as the angry wind sent Comes thund’ring his rage from the deep; Every tree its boughs has bent. And waves like wild horses leap; Lone seagull cries, Black clouds assemble. Gushing rain flows, Mighty rocks tremble— Yet the arched rainbow we’ll see. Near my garden by the sea. Ill When calm, solemn eve in her long robes of grey, Has lulled to rest the day, And lady-moon gliding in halo of light Through fleecy clouds steals her way. When birds are asleep. As the moon doth soar. In sadness I wander When these flowers are no more— The waves of life will dash as free. Nigh my garden by the sea. 7

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 THE OPTIMIST New England Coast By PAUL GIPFEL Warmed by the sun the greenish waters gleam. And joyously the bathers shout and sport. Far off, yet clear, the trim white jaunty ships Run airily across the distant port. The salty rushing south wind strongly blows, And now the heaving sea begins to rise. I slowly pass along deserted shores Whose loose white sand, once warm, now chills the foot, To where the beach is specked with rounded rocks. Among which lie the sea-shells myriad. From cliffs which form a bulwark ’gainst the waves I watch the swishing sea, cut by the rocks, Roll in and out, but farther in each time; And finally it laps the craggy base, And soon returns no more from off the beach. And then the billows don their snowy caps To hurl their vengeance hard upon the cliffs, And throw the spray high o’er the rugged wall. Woe to the hapless sailor in his skiff! Woe to the luckless fisher in his yawl! An April Shower By BESS PHILLIPSON seemed at least to Ann Leonards, wrapped about in a heavy dark cloak, as she turned the corner and quickly glided past the gloomy cemetery. Only two more blocks to the car, and then in a short half hour she would be safe at home. How good that word “home” sounded to her now! To her chagrin, after waiting about fifteen min- utes on the corner, a passer-by informed her: Sorry, miss, but the car won’t run again until morning.” Well, what was she to do? All alone, and an hour’s walk before her. She was in a predicament, and had only one course to follow—to walk. Ann began to lose courage. Her imagination was getting the best of her. From the shadows, leer- ing faces seemed to peer out and mock her. Even the rustling of the leaves ter- rified her. She wanted to run, but her feet began to weaken and she couldn’t. Every block seemed to grow longer. Would she never get home? Hundreds of dark things entered her mind. Sud- denly she felt some one staring at her. She turned her head sharply, and with a little sigh of relief, found it was only the night watchman of a neighboring fac- tory. Ann plucked up courage and hastened her steps. She ran about three blocks, when suddenly she plainly heard foot- steps in back of her. She crossed the street; the other person did likewise. When she walked quickly, the pursuing footsteps quickened: when she slackened her pace, so did the person behind. Now she was certain that some one was fol- lowing her! She trembled. Ann could control her tears no longer. Why, why, she asked herself, did she ever attempt to go all this distance, alone? 6

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THE OPTIMIST My Refuge By BERNICE RODEMANN gjCROSS the road the creek de- scends in a steep fall. The bank on one side is sheer rock; on the other side a grad- ual decline. We used to creep down this lower bank and come out at the bottom of the fall, which formed a deep basin, almost round In this basin was a boulder large enough to seat three girls. We reached it by crossing the creek a little lower down, then coming up along the base of the highest cliff. Right at the bottom of the cliff was a little oblong patch of weeds and stones and a shallow little stream ran along on one side of it, thus making this patch an island which we called “Green Island.” “Green Island” and “Rock Island,” men- tioned before, connected by a few step- ping stones. Thus the water on one side of “Rock Island” was shallow enough to wade through, and on the other deep enough to drown in. We used to lie on this island and deep or read, hanging our feet over the edge and letting the cool water trickle over. The incessant booming of the fall was like a tragic song of nature and I used to love to lie on the island, listening and dreaming for hours. Perhaps you would ask the question, “What were your dicams?” If I had been a great writer the voice of the water would have told me hun- dreds of wild tales and songs. If I had been a great painter, the beauty of the nature around me would have inspired my hands to make a poor imitation. I was neither a poet nor a painter, just a simple city girl who loved the country, but the water told me many stories and the spot formed many pictures in my mind. I can see it now, the singular, whole- some, inspiring beauty of the wild glen. The trees on the cliff above could hardly be heard for the water, but still their faint whisperings and pleadings were audible. Occasionally a bird would rest on them and trill out a song. The wind sobbed a lullaby. The tumble of the water was like the roar of a mighty wave. No human voice could be heard from above in that wild place. It was like a retreat of nature which nothing could in- trude upon. I would lazily gaze for hours at that mighty fall resembling life in its ever noisy, never ceasing downpour; gaze at the fish apparently stationary in the water. The spot was generally shady and restful, but sometimes a sunbeam would Bicker through from overhead, and some- times a cloud would pass over. Then the who’e spot would suddenly grow darker, darker. The falls would boom, it seemed almost louder than before and the whole world resemble a tragic scene on life’s stage. Even the birds hushed and trembled, the trees bent in terror and the flowers cowed as if fate had laid the heavy, prophesying hand of a dark fu- ture over them. The Rainbow By GLADYS M. KAISER Come, let us chase the rainbow. Whose gauze-like lines of splendor Make glad our hearts and bring to us Life, joy, and feelings tender. Life that is worth the Jiving, joy that may shine though tears Of tenderness and happiness Through rainbow-colored years. 8