Spence School - Yearbook (New York, NY)

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YEARBOOK CONTEST CLASSES XII, XI, X First PRIZE ESSAY orncrscnscrensccrnseiteinitsatoachgchn nner eter sires tan enn hepe aah tee Ra ar Joan Wickman ee Lily Emmet Pea | eaceecccs ke Ee ee et erate ee Joan Wickman CLASSES IX, VIII, VII FIRST PRIZE SLA} eee er ene Er ENERO ct bar MOROR emetic ere rere meme ote St og AREY Phyllis La Farge Narr dhivie ccc ee ee ee ee Gioia Vlahos PO CHE 2B owt le ee ee al ee ETE ee ee Frances Ewing THE VOICE OF PAN (Prize Poem) The warm and misty August evening air Was filled with memories of the careless spring, And promises of fruitful autumn-time. I heard the lazy slapping of the waves, And sleepy songs from little birds nearby, Yet somehow was my heart unsatisfied— This beauty seemed to me no part of God. Then suddenly I heard a mocking laugh, And from behind a tree a strange man stepped, Of wild appearance, bright and slanting eyes. And in a merry voice he said to me, ‘So Nature has no place in your God’s heart ? Why, then, not worship other gods, like me?” “Like you?” I cried. ‘There is but one true God!”’ And then he spoke with scornful ringing words That seemed alive and haunted me till now. “Before your God was born, the earth was ruled By spirits of the lakes, the trees, the sky. And spirits, though forgotten, never die. Is your stern God so jealous of the past? Is there not room for more than just one God ? The grass, the leaves, small flowers of the spring, The waters of the lake, the clouds, the birds— They know the voice of Pan—now yow shall hear,” And then the gr eat god Pan spoke of the past, Of gods and nymphs that ancient lands once loved. He told me of the strong eternal hills, Of hills that cradled pagan altars grim, That hid the fairy rings and Druid stones. 56

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{ Almost everyone has a radio, and those who haven't get a steady stream of music rang- ing from “Just One Of Those Things’ to Beethoven's Sth! The gaiety and homelike atmosphere everywhere make one forget the word “homesickness.’’ And even if you do get a bit “blue,” there’s ping-pong to dispel your mood. At dinner, the girls all dress, and everyone looks lovely in the soft candlelighted dining-room. Thursday nights are especially gay as the Seniors invite two members of their class as guests. And, while the season lasts, the “lucky seven’’ who are going to the opera appear in evening dresses of all descriptions. After dinner, there is coffee in the drawing-room for Juniors and Seniors. The group is always interrupted by girls dashing to telephone calls as this time is known as the “telephone hour.” After a brief respite, the bell rings for study -hall which all but the Seniors have in the library on the third floor. No sooner is it over than everyone dashes up to the Milk Bar for crackers and whatever may be on hand. Again the radios blare forth, bright Argyles pervade the rooms, the day’s letters are re-read, and last-minute peeks at home- work taken before the 10:00 bell. The days are packed whether you are a 5-day or 7-day boarder. On week-ends, there is lunch and a movie with some of the day-girls, and the symphony on Sundays. Before you arrive in the Autumn, you will have from one of the “Old Girls’ a wel- coming letter which will tell in more detail of “Boarding Life’ at Spence, for these two pages are only an introduction. 55

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He spoke of trees—of dark and lofty pines, Of long-haired willows weeping in the brook, And silver birches, delicate and slim. He told of cool spring rains that fill the streams, Of mighty rivers rolling to the sea; Of purple flowers trembling in the shade, And painted butterflies that dance in light. He spoke of birds whose songs at dawn’s gray hour Brought love and peace to men of ancient lands, As now today they ease our troubled hearts. He told of silent deer with quiet eyes, Of chattering squirrels, and rabbits shy and white. And then he spoke of pagan creatures strange— Gay elves, wild fauns, and merry, bright-eyed nymphs That dance and laugh and play deep in the woods, Unseen by man, believers of no God, For they themselves are gods of earth and air. ‘Is there not room for more than just one God ?”’ The great Pan cried, ‘And shall not He—your God Whose name is Love, love gods not strong or cruel ? O listen as I tell you of the truth !— If fearful man must worship, let it be The Earth, which is his heaven, if he but knew. Then God and I would smile, for we are both Gods of the earth, of beauty, and of truth.” Pan disappeared into the darkening woods, So I went on with singing heart and soul, For walking through the misty evening air, And listening to the slapping of the waves, I knew the earth was my God’s living heart— It’s strange a pagan spirit taught me this. Joan Wickman, XII ORGAN GRINDERS As elusive as the spring that brings it, and as wist- ful as the red-capped monkey's eyes, is the tune the organ grinder grinds. He appears suddenly, as if beck- oned by the balm of first spring days, as if materialized from the thin air and a few wishes. “What is he in wintertime?” one wonders. Perhaps he dresses up as Santa Claus; or sells hot chestnuts; or perhaps in win- tertime, he simply isn’t. For the organ grinder is a creature of the spring. There, at the corner, he has taken his first stand. He turns the handle wearily, as if his were a Herculean labor; but on his face is an elusive smile. The tune 1s ground out and fills the street with strident strains of music. The monkey, first sitting grave and cringing on the organ, is made audacious by the lilting melody, and hops down. What bliss, when one gets around to it, to forget the potential bond of the chain, and to skip about at liberty, red cap extended and eyes askance. Passers will come and go, but a little crowd gathers -about the monkey. They laugh at him. for mankind seems to be amused at a parody of itself. His wizened face is that of an old man, and his sometimes wistful, a7 sometimes maudlin eyes are those of a temperamental child. Poor beggar now, stretching his hand for pennies, he who could swing blithely from limb to limb of his native woods, breakfasting at random as he passed. Organ grinders have intuition—they know a face vulnerable to their performance, and give that passerby a special smile, a beckoning look that some fools cannot resist. How well I know, since I am one. But the lilting strains go on, the handle turns incessantly, and chil- dren too young to remember any other spring gaze at the organ grinder in wonder. The child offers to the monkey his stick of candy; the older one, the cunning future businessman, gives his bad penny. There are no curses for the mean, only blessings for the ones who give. Windows are opened, and eager faces look out, and the air is made even purer by this sight and this sound. Soon, the organ grinder moves on, wisely, know- ing that spectators in time will weary of the most pleasing sight. But he will come back, to the same corner, another day, as surely as spring comes back. Francine du Plessix, XII