Spence School - Yearbook (New York, NY)

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“HE FELL NOBLY DARING” (Prize Narrative) “He fell nobly daring,” but hard! As I look back on it now, it seems quite funny, but at the time, it was far from that. I’m a retired cowboy, but once I was the best broncho-buster west of the Rockies. I had just finished my third round trying to whip the buck out of one of them range-bred horses, and was on my way to sit down under the shade of a tree. A boy came up to me; finally finding the words to express himself, he blurted out, “Gee, you sure can ride.” We started talking about what he wanted to be when he grew up, and sure ‘noff he wanted to be a cowboy. He said he rode one of them big fat weaner calves in the next corral and got throw’d twice before he got to ride him, and said that he would like to show me for proof. Then this ten-year-old picks up a rope, and is off to the corral. I got kinda worried, but figured I wasn’t boss, so I mounted my bronc and started out for a good bumpy ride, thinkin’ that maybe he’d leave the weaner and watch me. But I guess that was wishful thinkin’, for I looked over my shoulder and sees he’s just roped hisself the big- gest and fattest of the bunch. He tied a rope around him to hold onto, and waited for me to dismount my bellering mount before he began the show. As soon as he seen me settled, he climbed on the calf and started fanning him. That little son-of-a-gun sure went to a heap of a lot of trouble to show off his riding. He was riding loose and reckless, and I figgered he’d only last a couple of jumps. But I guess I figgered wrong ‘cause he stuck there like glue through the wickedest twists. Suddenly something hap- pened too quick for the eye to see! In half a second the kid was standing on his head over the calf’s withers, but before he landed, that mean calf kicked him to the far side of the corral. I seen him land in a heap “nobly daring!” Gioia Vlahos, 1X A LITTLE MAN’S DAY (Prize Poem) Once I saw a robin, A gay and lovely robin, I jumped upon that robin And flew, flew away. I flew up in the treetops, The tall and queenly treetops, I sat up in those treetops All day, day, day. But soon there came the night-time, The dark and horrid night-time, 63 The cold and lonely night-time, And I cried, cried, cried. I left my lovely treetops, Now cold, unhappy treetops, I left my sleeping robin And went home, home, home. Now, under my own covers, My nice and cosy covers, Warm under my thick covers I sleep, sleep, sleep. Frances Ewing, VIIL

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“A SIGHT SO TOUCHING IN ITS MAJESTY” The light of dawn breaking through the dove-grey mist gently envelops the outskirts of sleeping London. The morning breeze whispers through the endless rows of houses that it is time for the city to shake itself into consciousness. A few windows are slammed shut, and water boils for the morning cup of tea as the work- ers of London prepare for another day. The light swiftly speeds through the tortuous streets, catching the swinging sign of an old pub, a bobby’s high helmet or a belisha beacon. And now one can distinctly see Ken- sington Gardens, the Broad Walk, the Round Pond, and the once fashionable Rotten Row; soon the children of the city will flock with their nannies to play games beneath the gnarled trees. The mist clears; the light sparkles on the figure of Eros poised above Picadilly Circus. The sun almost obliterates Nelson, but there are the four massive lions, a symbol of strength. A new day has dawned on London, touching, with its light, historic places, streets, and homes as it has countless times betore. Today, however, in the awakening city there is a cer- tain tingle of excitement, which can be felt in fashion- able Mayfair, in colorful Soho, on the banks of the Thames, in every corner of the city. Today the beloved Princess Elizabeth is to be married. Forgotten are priva- tions, queues, and shabbiness, for today there is to be a great procession. The coach drawn by the Windsor greys, His Majesty's guards, the milling, cheering crowds and Westminster Abbey awaiting—all this is London too. This important day is as much a part of London and her people as is the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament. The traditions of royalty and pomp of pageantry that this day will reveal are also the soul of London. Leone Olliff-Lee, XII REMORSE When yet a youth, I loved a slender girl Of tender grace and charm, and she loved me. Many the day we spent together, and We often told how fortunate we were. One night, malignant flames consumed the house, (Just as we told how fortunate we were). My face was burned out of its very shape And feature, and my eyes and lips were scarred. I could not see myself within that face— So strange it seemed to me; I knew that love, Though strong, might flee with horror at the sight. I banished from my door that slender form, Nor would let her see me as I was. Strange that she did not cry her love to me, Just called my name, and when I answered, ‘‘Go,” She went without a murmur or a tear! But not so strange, for many years ago, Though many after, (O, the years slip by, The countless, dim, commemorative years), They told me the malignant flames, that tore Away my face, had drawn away her sight. 62 Patricia Weenolsen, XII

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HOW I LEARNED TO WRITE A BOOK REPORT One snowy day, when I was supposed to be writing a book report, a strange thing happened. { was staring out of my window when an invisible voice said, “Daryl, write your book report!’’ I was going to write my book report on Far From Marlborough Street by Eliza- beth Philbrook, but, somehow, I just didn't feel like writing. After an hour or two, the invisible voice spoke again. “I am your grandmother,” it said. ‘Follow my light and I will show you how to write a book report.” I was startled. I hesitated a moment and then followed. Whe n I started to walk, a golden ladder appeared before me, and the voice told me to climb it. When I reached the ceiling, the roof vanished! I kept on climbing though my legs were getting very tired. In the distance I saw a cloud with the words ‘Authors’ Land”’ printed in gold on its side. The golden ladder stopped at the entrance. I went in and, to my amazement, I saw the characters from all the books that had ever been written! Again the voice spoke. “Watch closely what happens.” My grandmother's voice was so queer and crackly, a shiver went down my spine. But I did as she told me. My astonishment was beyond bounds when I saw the characters from Far From Marl- borough Street step in front of the rest of the characters. Immediately they started to act their parts! I did not dare to move for fear of harming this fairy-like place; the characters looked so real, yet their clothes were so delicate. The story started out when Nancy went away from her home on Marlborough Street to help her Uncle Jonathan get some land. Her mother gave her a little box and the key to it. The heroic little negro boy, Jezebel, was as real as Grandmother Pettingill’s will and the blue teapot. The play gave all the details and closed with Nancy’s returning home and Uncle Jonathan’s getting out of trouble. As soon as the play was over, the invisible voice said, “We must be getting home now. Follow my light.” As we descended the ladder this time, I was not as frightened as I had been. The roof went back to its usual place when we were safely under it. All this time I had been fol- lowing my grandmother’s light. She led me back to my seat by the window, and there before me lay the piece of paper and pencil, just as I had left them, except that the paper had the book report all written on it in my own handwriting! Daryl Beckman, VII FRIENDSHIP (This essay was influenced by Ralph Waldo Emer- son’s essay on Friendship, which I have just read.) What a strong feeling friendship is! What it would mean to the world if all people were friends! With a friend every little secret and inward feeling may be made known. You can talk with him and know he un- derstands. A friend will comprehend with sympathy the deep things which a mere neighbor might pass over. You can trust a friend you love. With him you can talk over with interest what another might consider monotonous, what would cause him utmost boredom. A friend brightens life where it is dull; and where life is already bright, adds something more precious than can at first be realized. Friendship is like an iron cable which can be broken only when rust has worn through. So friendship, at least between mortals, can be broken only when death has worn through. Friendship shares its feelings in love and hate and peace and war. When death takes its toll, the intangible friendship passes on down through the ages between others, just as a cloud through which a bird may fly, remains undissolved. Mary Katherine James, VIII 64