Spence School - Yearbook (New York, NY)

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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

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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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EACH AGE IS A DREAM (Prize Essay) There is an inexpressible joy in dreaming of the past. The evils of our tumultuous time sink from the mind when one ponders civilization alive only in the memory of history. For although we feel that our troubles are serious and world- shaking, the troubles of the past are simply the substance for study and romance. Therefore, when we escape into dreams of ancient times, there is a satisfaction and a certain fulfilment in finding qualities and ideals that we lack today ruling all men’s hearts and lives. But is this escape ignoble, is it cowardly? Perhaps, but do not, do not ques- tion it! These dreams are too dear a delight. Come, I shall show you what this delight is, and together we shall peek into my dreams. But you must forget all the duty, all the useless energy, and all the vain hope of the present as we sink into the misty past. Half-obscured by the magical gray mist, there is, on the right, a graceful Greek temple with slender marble columns. I can dimly hear and see a group of white-robed men standing on the porch of this temple, discussing the meaning and value of life with an ability and understanding un- equalled by any succeeding generation. To the left, a shimmering fountain leaps to the air, then falls with tinkling laughter and a shower of changing gray and white colors. A swift, graceful figure suddenly darts from behind the fountain. After standing before me a second with hand upraised, the nymph turns and chases the blue-green brook that winds from the fountain deep into the woods. Oh, that the serene peace, the lofty contemplation, and the worship of nature that existed in those calm classical times existed in this world today! How much we are missing in this age of rush and noise! And how—but stop; before we once more become confused with the hard thoughts of real- ity, let us hastily escape into the glorious time of the Renaissance. Here is Venice, with its great palaces, sliding streets of water, and riches gathered from both the West and the Orient. The city throbs with the bustle of trade and the color of magnificent pag- eants. All this vibrant life is surrounded by the clear beauty of the crystal air, the deep reflecting streams, and the glowing wealth of many lands. And there are still more visions of Italy’s Renais- sance. Before me stretch rich green fields and thick purple vineyards, while on the swelling hills grim castles frown upon the earth and reach towards heaven. And then there is also beauty- 60 loving Florence, turbulent and sinful, yet a city filled with more loveliness, more lasting art than even this day-dream can picture. Such vitality, such delight in life as I have seen in these dreams! Would we not know true happiness if in reality we could see as much color and warmth, and have as much love of beauty and love of life as in those visions ? In my next day dream there is peace and nobility and loveliness. In a long white ruffled dress I am sitting on the steps of a porch waiting for a party to begin. It is in the days of the South before the Civil War; warmth and pleasure seem to fill the earth. From the carefully tended garden comes the mingled fragrance of roses and magnolias. The wide lawn is splashed with sun and shadow- patterns of the trees. The breeze whispers drowsily in the warm stillness as I wait for the guests to arrive and the dance to begin. I know it will be light-hearted and lovely, and that there will be gay conversation about the chivalry and nobility of our dear South. Yes, the romance and indolence of those days are truly enviable. Why do we not place the emphasis in this age on loveliness and nobility instead of business and industry? Indeed, how very beautiful was the old South, and how we all secretly yearn for its peace and its romance! These dreams that we have seen have been an escape, for in the past we have found the quali- ties that we need today—the serence contempla- tion of classical Greece, the vibrancy and beauty of the Renaissance, and the peace and chivalry of the old South. Can we possibly reach into these dreams and bring the greatness of the past into the present? Are my dreams of any use? No; for I must remember that “each age is a dream that is dying or one that is coming to birth.” And the past is made up of dreams that are dead, while this present reality is “a dream that is coming to birth.” If I cannot find the romance of olden times in this life, I must realize that this age too will one day be but a dream of the past, that I am now living in a part of history, and that it too has its beauty and greatness. O yes, I know how foolish I am! I know how much time I waste in in these vain dreams. And I wonder . . . I wonder if I shall ever turn to reality with hope and de- light. I wonder if I shall ever cease longing for the useless beauty of the past. Yes, often I have wondered that, but never, never have I wished it. Joan Wickman, XII