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

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The Optimist Nut had disappeared. Evidently the distinguished speaker was late. People rattled programs, sneezed and coughed, hemmed and hawed. The chairman mopped his brow and helped himself to some water. Of course, everyone said, only a big man like Hidgeby could get away with this sort of thing. Glancing suddenly back of the platform the chairman smiled with relief. The audience grew hushed as he arose. “Ladies and Gentlemen. It is with the great- est pleasure that I introduce to you here tonight, one of the few great men in the scientific world who arc intelligent and witty, besides being intellectual. The combination my friends, is rare. I have the honor of introducing Professor John Hidgeby. The audience thundered applause as the Nut walked magnificently on the platform to deliver a brilliant and distinguished lecture. • When hands had grown weary of applauding, the audience left, discussing the lecture. The Author went home telling himself that he knetv the fellow looked distinguished; the Society Lady thinking “Never so mortified in my life, my dear, and the Girl Student, incredibly ro- mantic, went to send for his picture. She would always remember him. The Nut, who is also a great student of people, went home to tell the story to me. Futility? Night Lights God is futility and barren hopes of eager youth. Life is futility and Death the bitterness of the unknown . . . And tears and love arc but the emptiness of a mask. Yet rain on tender leaves, and the sweet, green odor of Spring. and the ecstacy of a glimpse, a grail-like, sudden vision of perfect, haunting loveliness in my savage, aching search for Beauty, make me forget . . . Dorothy Sciif.r. As I was walking down Broadway the other night. The lights along the avenue thrilled me. As the lights of Broadway always do. 1 stood still, I took a deep breath. I could see— And then, out of the darkness: “This glimmer is All you see—all you know. Only gaiety and joy. But remember, my son, remember, —Every light casts a shadow.” I walked on—a man. Milton Hollander. Dian Her beauty like the quiet stillness of a summer day or the smooth, unrippled waters of a silver lake had yet the deep and burning passion the depth and clarity of mind that reaches beyond the mortal sphere into something, almost divine. When you met her you felt as if some cool gust of wind soothing, refreshing had blown across your consciousness and left within its wake a lingering perfume. Her silences could do that to you. Twelve Annette Woolf.

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The Optimist EPISODE By Dorothy Schf.r HE cracking sound was becoming an- noying. Everyone on the train was vaguely troubled by the incessant crack, and had, at one time or another, looked severely at the disturbing individual. Apparently he was not conscious of the fero- cious glares bestowed upon him. for he serenely placed another shell between his teeth and crrrack . . . the shell was neatly halved. He re- moved the shell and crunched on the pistachio. The others, watching anxiously, felt their mouths becoming uncomfortably salty. They furtively swallowed. Across the aisle pompously sat the Author, smugly intellectual. He was bound for the lec- ture. Dr. Hidgeby's lecture. Hidgeby? Oh yes. Big man. Yaas. Let’s see. I heard him speak at Town Hall last week. That man cer- tainly has a mind. Damn that man, can’t he stop his infernal nut-cracking. Let’s sec. He wrote a book, didn’t he? I wonder how many editions. It’s getting so that even scientists can write best sellers. The masses can't read that stuff. Maybe you think your stuff is good for them. Anyway we’ve got to restrict the intel- lectual. Can’t have every street-cleaner writing a book. The Author shifted uneasily and glared across the aisle. The Society Lady sat next to the Author. Her hair was white, her dress lay low upon her Hat chest. Around her neck was a silver string to which was attached lorgnettes. She too was going to the lecture. A report for the Ladies Guild. She would have to prepare her speech immediately after the talk. That man was loo vulgar with his disconcerting nut-cracking. It would be much better to have people of a lower class placed in another coach or have the rates raised. But then the loud, pushing nouveau- riche would push out the people who really mat- tered. She sniffed disapprovingly. . . The Society Lady never did anything as common as sniffing, but upon examination you found that it closely resembled a sniff. Mind you, I make no assertions as to the veracity of that closely re- sembling sniff: I only quote the nut-cracking man, who, despite his abominable habits, is a particular friend of mine. In the corner sat the bespectacled Girl Stu- dent, her narrow lap covered with books. Had you looked, the titles would probably have read, “Autobiography of An Atom, Sex Life of An Ant,” “Through the Cells of the (Esophagus,” etc. But you didn’t look. One isn’t that much interested in bespectacled girls. Says Dorothy Parker, Men seldom make passes At girls who wear glasses. She was looking at the young man across the aisle. She knew he was terribly stupid, and his nails were filthy, but still he had the most pierc- ing eyes. And besides, she fancied, he was star- ing at her. She was mushily sentimental despite her paraphernalia and intellectual air. She won- dered about love at first sight. Her pulse beat rapidly. She wiped her moist hands on a neat square of white linen. Hers, she told herself, was a life of pure reason. It was all pitifully ridiculous. The Girl Student was not quick to grasp things. In school she had pored for hours over homework which should have taken half the time. Her eyes had become dull from ex- cessive homework, hence the tortoise-shell glasses. She had become hideously repressed. She wished he would stop cracking nuts. Please make him stop. She was a little frightened and amazed at herself for caring so much as to pray. She called herself an Athicst, for she had heard that all the best intellectuals did not believe in God and read Schopenhauer. She was absurdly childish although she had studied Kant and Hegel, Socrates and Spinoza. I see you are be- ginning to feel sorry for her and a little con- temptuous. I felt that way too, when my friend told me about her. The Author was just about to blow his nose (gently, of course) and the Nut Cracker just about to do his act, when the train, grinding and groaning, came to a stop. All out. Last stop West Haven. The Author pompously led the procession to the lecture hall. Behind him minced the Society Lady, followed by the Stu- dent walking decorously. The Nut (so they had begun to call him) leisurely brought up the rear, nonchalantly cracking between strides. In the hall the Society Lady walked proudly to her reserved seat in the first row. She found her- self next to the Author who was coughing, and rattling his program. Way in the back sat the Student thinking about the piercing eyes. The Eleven

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