Spence School - Yearbook (New York, NY)

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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

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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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eT a ERIE ET THE VOICE WITHOUT A SMILE I've always been afraid of telephones. Not that they mystify me, for my only pleasant contact with telephones came at a time when I had a crush on a lineman and used to pull out the wires in our phone so he would come and fix it. (That's probably where my idiosyn- crasy of unscrewing the mouthpiece while I talk origi- nated.) My hatred of Alexander Graham Bell’s inven- tion stems from my early childhood when my mother instructed me to cultivate a voice with a smile. My voice not only lacks a smile; it possesses a definite leer. I have never learned to talk naturally into a telephone, but instead shriek and bellow at the obstinate instru- ment, and if the conversation becomes too difficult or complicated, I yield to temptation and slam down the receiver. The process involved in reaching someone via the telephone completely floors me. I approach the vile apparatus deliberately and spend as much time as pos- I regularly make several sible looking up the number. mistakes in dialing and am forced to start again. Then I wait, terrified, secretly hoping that no one will answer. It’s usually a wrong number, anyway. Answering doesn't present problems, as a cule. I simply say “Hello.” There was a time when I used to respond with a cheery “Dr. Sullivan's residence,’ but, as my midwestern monotone cannot be understood by any- one, this only resulted in confusion, and I was forced to abandon it. (Anyway, Emily Post frowns on it.) ] envy characters in the movies who are allowed to growl “yeah?” or “For whom does the bell toll?” I even wish I was in England so I could say “Go ahead,” “Are you there?” (or whatever it is they say in England.) “Hello” sounds so prosaic. Any previous troubles I may have had with the telephone seem tame compared to what | endured this summer. I was working in a summer theatre, and my particular job was to call up all sorts of peculiar peo- ple to ask if the theatre might borrow various articles. As these articles were unusual, I frequently had trouble making myself understood. Once we received a small eagle (stuffed) when I had asked for a minature easel. There was alsc the horrible time I had convincing the Danbury Railway, Station that I only wanted to borrow a signal bell and not the entice engine. | still have nightmares when I imagine the astonishment displayed by the manager of a dry-cleaning establishment when, on the hottest day of the summer, he heard a small voice entreating, “Hello! I wonder if you can tell me how to make steam!” My antipathy to phones is intensified a thousand times by a pay phone. The idea that the monstrous ma- chine is consuming my money with a never-ceasing ap- petite, combined with an inability to get along with the operator, makes a booth a virtual chamber of horrors. However, I can point with pride to the fact that once I caused an operator to lose her voice-with-a-smiule. That was the day I called every furniture store in Con- necticut for garden furniture, and used so many nickels that no more would go in. ‘Deposit five cents, please,” said the operator. This was virtually impossible, and I screamed in ter- ror, thinking the awful machine might blow up. ‘It won't go in!” “Deposit five cents, please,” said the operator, a trifle more firmly. ‘T tell you it won't go in!” I shouted in a roar that could be heard throughout the entire building. ‘Then use dimes!’ The operator shouted back, losing her composure. We finally reached an agreement w hereby I was to receive two calls for a dime. But it never worked. They still owe me forty cents. What really conditioned me against telephones for the rest of my unnatural life was the incident of the antique dealers. In the space of one hour, on a day when I was particularly distressed—since it had been discovered that -half the props for the coming show were in the car of a fellow who had left the day before to be married—three antique dealers called up and threatened to take legal action against the theatre. It fell upon me to placate them. To the first I was polite and full of remorse; I listened vaguely to the second; and I informed the third that “That girl who went around borrowing things and not returning them’? wasn't in and was not expected to return. As a result of this appalling experience I still have to be convinced that it isn’t an antique dealer before I will come to the phone. Maybe it was all good for me—who knows? But, from now on, I'll put my faith in the pony express. Anne Sullivan, XII MAKE MINE VERSES The place that I shall write about Is ‘cross a magic SCa— Where pure prose blooms on every bush And every verse is free— The houses all are pink and white, The sky is always blue; At sunrise every golden day, Trochaics sing to you. And all the little children You meet along the street, They speak to you in couplets And never miss a beat. If I could linger there awhile, A month or two at most, You'd think I was inhabited By William Shakespeare’s ghost. Lucy Blount, XII