Spence School - Yearbook (New York, NY)

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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

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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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PALESTINE PASTORALE — 1948 (Prize Narrative) The hot sun beat relentlessly down on the young boy as he stood watch on top of the mound, and thick, growth. Be.oze him lay the city, Jerusalem, with covered with rocks stubby desert its gray walls and ancient stones. He could faintly hear the cries of merchants selling their wares, and far off in the distance, from the dome of a mosque, the voices of the faithful being called to prayer. He was about sixteen years old, His thick, dark hair was pushed back from his perspiring fore- head, stowing a clear, tanned face, and deep watchful eyes. Beside him was a packet wrapped in old cloth, which contained his uneaten lunch; and over his knees, in sharp contrast with his shabby, faded shorts, lay a dark-portable machine gun. It did not seem to strike him as unusual that someone as young as he should be keeping armed vigil at one of the entrances to a large city. He had been doing guard duty like this ever since he had joined the Haganah, a little over a year ago. Inspired with the intense national feeling that possessed all the inhabitants of this little land, he had welcomed the opportunity of being able to further the cause about which he felt so strongly. Ever sicce the U. N. decision for partition of Palestine, violence had fiamed between Arab and Jew. Blow for blow, this unofhcial warfare had afiected the lives of all concerned. Now here he was, armed with a machine gun, with orders to } shoo: 02 sight anyore—man, woman, or child— who should come out the gate just ahead of him. So far, everything had been quiet, almost as if the Arabs sensed the presence of Haganah guards. Glancing up at the sun, he saw that it was almost time for him to be relieved. That, at least, was good. Another day had gone by; he had not had to kill anyone. Deep underneath his tough outer- celf, which had been hardened; first in the years before the escape from the Nazis, then in the con- tinued pressure of being ah illegal imrvp-ant, and now in this bloody half-war—deep under this hard crust, lay the part of himself that he wanted to hide. He loved nature and the outdoors, and 58 the beauty of life. He loved to sit and think of things other than guns, and shooting, and death; but coupled with this, was an overwhelming feel- ing of duty, and a reverent devotion to the soil which his. ancestors had ruled in the days of ancient glory. He felt ashamed of his shrinking soul. No one knew of the struggle that was going on within him. He knew that it would almost kill him to have to shoot anyone, and yet—if anyone left the city—he had his orders. By this time the sun had almost gone, and the cool blue-gray air of evening hung over the land. Sitting musing at his post, the boy was startled by the sound of voices below him. An old woman and a nice-looking youth about his own age were com- ing out of the wide gate. The woman was dressed in a long white robe, and she carried a bundle of sticks on her bent back. She walked in a slow, halting manner, supported by the boy. Here ‘was the test. If he was to carry out the command, he would shoot on sight; but yet—he could not. The woman was so old and frail; and the boy looked as if he might be a friend in other times. He hoped that they would hurry up and get out of sight before the relief guard came. Just then his reverie was broken by a voice behind him. “It has been a hot day. You get along. Get some sleep; you will be needed again tomorrow.” On seeing the two Arabs, the new guard stopped short. “Before you go, you must carry out your orders. Shoot—and do not miss. We can’t afford to waste bullets.” Turning around, the boy looked into the face of his comrade. It was a hard, set face, and in those eyes he-saw a grim look of determination. He gritted his teeth, adjusted the gun. The quiet of the night was broken by the sound of two shots. Then the boy turned and stumbled off into the darkness. Lily Emmet, X