Spence School - Yearbook (New York, NY)

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HOW WIDE SHOULD IT BE? (Prize Essay) Staring does not help. I had stared fixedly at the same problem for fifteen minutes, but it was still the same sensible nonsense. “Mr. Parker decided to have a border for fiow- ers along both sides and across the rear of his back yard, which was sixty feet by forty feet. If the border is to be of uniform width and occupy one fifth of the yard, how wide should it be?” At that moment I didn’t care whether the border occupied one fifth or five fifths of Mr. Parker’s yard. My eyes were heavy with sleep, and I longed to leave the elusive x and y, if only till the next day’s math class. Suddenly the problem came alive! I understood at last. It had nothing to do with algebra, nothing to do with numbers, for that matter. How could it? For the problem belonged to the Parkers, not to First Year Algebra. Last March, when bald, raw patches of brown mud were beginning to disfigure the winter’s snow, Mrs. Parker said to her husband, “John, don’t you think we should do something with the back yard this year? Everybody else has flowers or vegetables or shrubbery at least.” Mr. Parker looked up from the mystery he was reading. ““A flower border would be nice. We could have it along both sides and across the back of the yard. How wide do you think it should be?” “That depends .. .”” said Mrs. Parker. That was how the problem started. Mr. Parker asked friends and relations, cousins and aunts, and they all had very definite ideas. Mrs. Spixit, the lady next door, said that nastur- tiums were nice, but they needed a lot of room. Mr. Parker’s mother-in-law liked climbing roses; they needed almost no room. Mrs. Parker advo- cated a narrow border because she didn’t want to crowd the garden furniture. The children said, “Remember the croquet set. That has to fit, too.” The dog, thinking in terms of a large bone- burial ground, was in favor of a wide border. During all the weeks of debate, Mr. Parker never lost his temper; a sunflower could not have been more cheerful. But he was tired of the feuds over phlox and petunias. The very thought of a hoe made him nervous, and his sleep was troubled by visions of cut-worms and slugs. Finally he gave up. Mrs. Parker could have the garden if she wished, but he never wanted to hear of it again. Though Mrs. Parker tried valiantly, she never could decide how wide the flower bed should be. And neither could I, But the math teacher could. Without considering the Parkers, she used a magic equation which immediately told how wide it should be. Phyllis La Farge, IX

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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

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VOCABULARY “These words in themselves are night”: Shadow, dark and pale moonlight, Silver, star-dust, shadow, pool, Graveyard, nightmare, dungeon, ghoul, Spectre, silence, dream, and groan, Black and still and warm and moan, Strange, mysterious and kind, Long and quiet, slow and blind, Empty, echo, lonely, fright, These words in themselves are night! Courtenay Dewey Gentry, XI “These words in themselves are fair’’: Shining, auburn, lucent hair, White neck, arms, light feet and hands, Blue, green, pinkish rainbow bands; Light, creation, thought, ideal, Painting, music, steadfast zeal; Stained-glass window, shaft of light, Church, and choir, and Christmas night; Joy and sorrow, solitude, Dancing, singing, quietude; God, and Earth, and loving care, These words in themselves are fair! Claude Goffart, XI “These words in themselves are home’: Children, parents, dogs that roam, Tantrums, temper, sobbing fits, Smiles and laughter, humour, wits, Silver, napkins, dinner plates, Flowers, fences, white-washed gates, High-backed chairs and sagging couches, Mumps and measles, father’s grouches, Dripping raincoats, muddy floors, Cats and dogs and scratched-up doors, Lizards, toads, and mice, and birds Home makes up these simple words! Patricia Williams, X1 SEA FANTASIA Fantastic sea of checkerboard: Red from the Red Sea, black from the Black, Shades of azure and turquoise from Mediterranean shores White from the river through Lake Geneva, Green with bitter salt from Atlantic and Pacific, Yellow from a muddy Chinese river. Enchanting. Star-shaped is the ship that sails this sea With every point a tale of past adventure. Center of fantasia. Norseman’s proud curving masthead With eye of rugged sailor for a prow; Egyptian trireme—bronzed, sweating backs Straining to the mighty oars; Paddle wheels of a river boat thrash The vari-colored water; Dim small boat which for a dime Gladly takes one for a trip to Welfare isle; Gun-metal gray of present warship With mounted hatred in its turrets, Thousand masts and simple sails. Skull and crossbones, the Jolly Roger's omen Whirling, whirling, point counter-point Far-off Brittania rules the waves. No captain for my star ship Except any free sail who deems to try. But this is my dream And knowing the dreadful end From this point counter-point, The sinking of my ship into a Charybdis, N’er to rise up, I have made no human. For who can live long in “Fantasia” ? Sherry Cogan, X 66