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

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JANUARY, 1939 CUNCCERT It was August ninth, 1938, and Lewisohn Stadium was filled with music lovers, and a few who did not love music. When the great Hofmann appeared, there was thunderous applause. Then the Symphony Orchestra began to play, and a hush came over the audience. Faces were, by turns, expectant, disap- pointed, inspired, rapturous and revealing. When the program was nearing the half-way mark, a few listeners be- came restless. A few yawns were stifled, a bit of coughing aroused the others long enough for them to violently hush the offenders. Mrs. Holmes, sitting down in front, was worried. At her left sat Mr. Phillips, young, handsome, intent on the music. It was he who had suggested the concert, and although the restive Mrs. Holmes detested symphonic music, she had readily agreed because of her anxiety to please Danny Phillips. She had wondered how Danny had been able to secure the best seats, she later discovered that he had had passes, and her lips had become derisory. Mrs. Holmes was an attractive woman of thirty who looked twenty-five. Well-built, having an exquisite taste in her choice of clothes, and possessing a face with which several beauty shops were familiar, she appeared at all times, well- groomed and good-looking. She had made Danny understand that she was going to be divorced, else he never would have continued seeing her. Of course she would never divorce Bill Holmes-he offered too much security. She had been attracted to Danny at a cocktail party, and had contrived to prolong the acquaintance until some- thing deeper had been established. Her husband had no other interest in her than for displaying her as a model for clothes. When in his company, however, she succeeded admirably as a model for an acrimonious tongue. He attempted to conceal the latter with excuses. Because of the voluble flattery she received, her vanity was temporarily appeased. She desired more and more attention, and Danny was gullible enough to believe that she was sincere in her affection. Phyllis Holmes, tonight, knew that her double-crossing could not last much longer, yet she was loath to surrender her enjoyment. Selfish she was, yet her vanity suppressed what little intelligence she might have had. Strange that Danny Phillips was attracted to her? No, not at all odd. It is common enough for a man to be temporarily blinded by a woman's faults, is it not? She hoped that none of her friends would see her with Danny, yet few en- joyed music. Her brow was wrinkled in worry and she wished the pesky musicn would stop so that Danny could tell her again how well she was look- ing . . . Danny, beside her, was lost in a world of his own, one which she could never enter. Mrs. Holmes restlessly looked about her, noting the apparel of other wo- men, judging critically. Then she began to worry again. If Bill discovered that she was seeing another man continuously, he would divorce her . . . Heaven knows he had grounds enough! In less expensive seats, sat Dolly Owens and her husband. They were cel- ebrating their first wedding anniversary and were very much in love. They were both passionately fond of music, only one of their common interests. Page N ine

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SENIOR OPTIMIST WOODFIRE DREAMS Softly, like hushed laughter the wood in the campfire crackles. The re- flection of the flames throws a dim iridescence over the scene. How easy it is for one to lie back and dream. The swaying of the fire seems like thousands of dancers moving before me. The crisp sound that is the flame as it hungrily licks the wood, reminds one of the lilt of a thousand violins. It reminds me of an opera. I can hear the heroine with a high clear voice that soars through song like a bird through the heavens. I think that I shall be an opera singer, if only in my imagination. How wonderful it would be. How glorious to live the part of Verdi's Aida or Wagner's Isolde Or to be Cho-Cho-San the tragic heroine of Puccini's Madame Butterfly. How beautifully the melody of the flames gently sweeps onward and upward. They dance in leaps and bounds reaching to caress the sky. A dancer! Yes, perhaps I would like to be a dancer. To dance as the flames before me are Hitting, gracefully and featherlike. To dance before thousands of people, mindful only of the throbbing of the violins, to follow the music freely like a carefree gypsy in his wanderings. Perhaps I would like to be a gypsy, to merely wander o'er the land, living with nature as one of her children. To gather with others around the campfire in the evening to dance and sing. I can hear the guitars and the sobbing of the violins amidst the sound of happy voices and the leaping flame of the fire. My fire is also leaping and subsiding only to leap again higher than before. The world is so full of beauty that to describe it is a breathless art in itself. To describe to others a beautiful aria, a floating dance or the Vagabond life of a gypsy is glorious. The poet does this. Yes, now I know more than all other things I would like to be a poet. To show my readers a dancer as she whirls and dips as if blessed with wings. To bring to the world the voice of a beautiful singer so that they may thrill to the beauty of her song. To have my readers feel the abandon of the gypsy dancing, by the light of a campfire. Yes, I shall be a poet to bring beauty to the world through the efforts of my pen. My fire is now burning slowly and softly. Once more there issues from it the sound of hushed laughter. Do you mock my dreams, fire? My dreams were beautiful although only dreams. Also beautiful is the music of your murmuring. Burn fire, burn a melody of flame for me. -Marjorie Cooper. A WINTER NIGHT The silvery moon glides over the darkened sky, Shimmering as it passes over the crystal lake. In the distance the glittering skates of maidens Glide over the frozen lake to the strains of The Skater's Waltz. Could ever a night be made more beautiful than this? -Madeline Loprete. Page Eight

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SENIOR OPTIMIST Page Ten During the intermission, they preferred to remain in their seats, smoking and looking about eagerly to see if any of their friends were present. Suddenly Dolly glimpsed Phyllis Holmes speaking to Danny. Dolly had some know- ledge of Phyllis' intimate affairs, before she had married Bob, she had been employed in Phyllis' favorite dress shop, and Phyllis had spoken freely to a sympathetic listener. Dolly had needed to be sympathetic . . . She had seen Danny with Phyllis a number of times. She and Bob knew Danny well and were fond of the young man. She exclaimed, Bob, we must warn Danny of that woman. Bob laughed, pulled her hand into his and told her to forget her magnanimous intentions. But whenever Dolly looked at the couple, she worried. However, she managed to live with the music and was carried away by the great pianist's inspired playing. Sidney Golden was unsuccessfully trying to have a flirtation with the girl at his right. She was absorbed in the music. He liked music but it had no overpowering effects on him. The orchestra was playing a sad, sweet melody, a haunting, lingering song which made tears come to the eyes of the girl at Sidney's right. She was remembering Richard who was now rotting under Spanish soi'l. Oh, what's the use! Sidney thought to himself-hmm-nice ankles, pretty good figure, blonde, looks sad. Marie was seated on Danny Phillip's right and she thought that the next time her employer asked her to work late she would not refuse. What mat- ter-. With a twist to her lips, He'll think it's cute, but my mother if sick . . . Althea Porter, Socialist, and sitting high on the stone steps with the sky seeing near, was lost in the beauty of the now fiery piano solo. She came out of her riverie reluctantly, having felt the spirit of the music enter her. The music had touched her and distressed her, and the effect was poignant and fCon!imzed on Page 69j INSPIRATION One needs but get that sensation, That thought of someone dear, Or perhaps, patriotism for a nation, That can bring the feeling, that burns and sears, Until in hand, one clutches the pen, the brush, the clay, Then heaven move hell, it may-g With trembling hand and feverish brow He struggles on, he dare not stop now, That seed, it must be sowedg At last, with eyes of reverent tears, He lays aside his clarion torch To reveal the monument he mowed To the vagabond of passions, inspiration. -Louis Scbleifer.