Starrett School for Girls - Starette Yearbook (Chicago, IL)

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GYPSY CAMP SCENE The moon-a silver ribbon Floats on the clear, night breeze, Smoke-and a Gypsy campfire, Edge the rim of silver-tipped trees, Dogs and the pawing of horses, Croaking of frogs, sleek and wet, Swelling and puffing at rotted logs, From dank and marshy depths. The tongues of golden flame Cast mysterious shadows of light That flicker and dance and vanish away, Into the blue of the night. Hola! Hola! And the shouts Of olive-complected youths At the clang and twang of tamborines, And the fiery eyes that muse On the twinkling feet and bright tamborines Of the dancing Gypsy girlsg Guitars-and a soft, strained strumming Floats on the clear night breeze. In her tent, the Gypsy's hoarse humming- What is it the old hag foresees? Gipsey Wynekoop, Senior A BATH IN MOONLIGHT I'd like to take a bath In the heavenly blue In moonlight, My goal Wash my soul clean Will be to have my soul In starlight, Clean and shining, For soap, Iid use floaty Scrubbed with stars and clouds Clouds of white, With a silver lining Grab a jagged star That I may see the beauty Out of the night Of June For ascrub-brush Mirrored on the face To my soul. Of the moon. Ruth Kaufman, Senior BOOK IMPRESSIONS It seems strange how impressions, formed when the mind is rather immature and young, stay with one even when these impressions are in every danger of being thrown off. They are planted firmly in the mind to stay, it seems, and nothing can throw them entirely off, even though they may wear a bit, that is inevitable. Such is the case with my grandfather's library. When I was quite young and not old enough to read or to know the value of any book beyond those of Mother Goose, classic of the children, it was my great delight to pull out the volumes, big and little, good and bad, and play house with them by the hour. The library was a huge, musty room with books literally forming the walls of the place, and during the course of my playing I made large gaps in the walls, for I needed much material for my rooms and took it. The heavy encyclopaedias were the best, for they could stand Forty-One

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her vitality-yet stimulate her senses in such an awful way? His words pounded, seared themselves into her brain and made her feel as though her soul, breaking free from its lifeless shell, would crash through into another world. How conscious and yet dazed she was as she retained sub-consciously the ideas he expressed, while at the same time her bewildered brain speculated on only the unfairness and cruelty of his actions. TASTE Bah! With sudden fury, she threw away the fruit she had absently put into her mouth. A bitter, acid taste remained, as unpleasant as the atmosphere about her. Distasteful-- how expressive a word! How well it expressed her feelings. That coarse, biting irrita- tion of the throat corresponded perfectly with the bitter situation. SMELL What was that? Ah-a breeze from across the waters, bringing the sweet odor of dying roses and old grass soaked with dew-an odor as ageless as Time-an odor of the sorrow and despair of the gods-seeping into the brain of man with insinuating ease. No human expression can describe well enough this subtle. most memorable' perfume of all. - Jane Hopkins, Senior LOVE The heavens were a pitch black, ' When out of the horizon rose a mellow glow. I was spellbound, caught in the beauty of the moment, Caught in the shadows of the moon. It grew in splendor, and the soft radiance spread a halo of white gold over all. It was beautiful, but, to me, one thing was lacking,- My dear, it was you. What good is a moon, if you have no one to share it with? What good is the stillness and beauty- If you are there alone? ' Oh! Do you understand? Please say you do, For it means all the world to me. ' If I must be caught alone, Then the least I can do is dream of you. You know, my dear, your coming into my life reminds me very much of this moment. All was black, when suddenly from out of my horizon rose a mellow glow- It was you with your soft light and radiant love. I was caught, blinded, but spellbound- Caught in the meshes of those rays. That light grew in beauty and splendor, Until now, I'm lost without its sweet and guiding power- Lost in the shadows of our love. Grace Andrews, Senior YOUR SMILE I've never seen a smile as sweet as yours. Those times when I was lonely, ill, or sad, Or worried with the simple cares of life You'd smile for me and then I would be glad. But you have left me-so today I went To call you liar, cheat-to make you pay- But when you met me at your door, you smiled, My words were left unsaidg I went away. Dorothy Gidwitz, Senior F arty

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up by themselves, their covers were so thick and broad that the thin pages inside couldn't become bent or torn while the books were being arranged. Often my grand- mother would rush into the library and grab up a cherished first edition that was being used for a perambulator and being dragged over the carpet by a bit of string with a much buffered doll perched on top. How I had ever managed to get hold of the precious literature I never can figure out, but there wasn't much of the cases I left unsearched for the books that would make substantial foundations for my houses. These impressions', that I was unconsciously getting of the many books I handled day after day, sometimes, from using the same ones over again, penetrated my growing mind. I was vastly surprised a few years ago when I had entered into the busy world of high school to come upon some old volumes in the library and feel their friend- liness. The dictionaries were sources of delight, for in my studies words often came up that I could find with ease in the old editions. I received a shock when I turned the rusty cover of a very dusty book and found my old friend, George Eliot's Maggie with Tom close behind. I had used this for a door to the living-room of my play house, my grandmother had informed me, and I vaguely remembered it. A fat book of Shakespeare's tragedies with notes and thousands of other accessories combined I remember had been the floor of the kitchen -how Mr. William would feel to know his precious writing had degenerated to the depths of the back regions! Now I hailed the book as a true comrade, it would stand by nobly in the hard days to come when the plays must be read and talked about and read again. The volumes of poems by Byron and Shelley and Keats I discovered close by, and these showed evidence of hard wear. I think they had stood sentinels for the soldier camp when the little boy next door had come over with his toy men and demanded a place for them to stay in! To think they had been kicked and thrown about the floor in our exciting play! I recall that the book of Shakespeare's tragedies had frightened me very much when I had once opened the cover, particularly the picture of Macbeth's wife in the sleep-walk made me shiver. I laugh when I turn to it now, but still I can imagine how it could have made me quake. The impressions of these books still remain with me. The poems by the famous poets had. of course, meant nothing to me then, but they had come in very handy, now they were good friends and I felt instinctively kindly toward them. There are many other hooks about which I feel the same, and there are many others about which I can remember nothing. Only now are their mysteries revealed to me behind the dim and dusty covers of time and eternity which was and always will be with some of the fading pages. Donna Dickey, Col. I. JADE GOD Scott Kenedy was a collector of curios, a critic, and a man highly respected in every circle in which he moved. He was one of the few who seemed to have everything- love, wealth, and position. Scott was one of a group of men who spend their lives delving into the mysteries of the past and wrestling from the ages matchless bits of beauty. With the essentials of happiness in his possession, he could have had peace and con- tentment, but one thing prevented thim, a great unfulfilled desire-a crowning passion of a desire which had found its birth in a dim little Chinese shop on the river front, a mysterious place where the dry dust and the cobwebs veiled the treaures of the Mings and Tongs. Scott Kenedy had been looking for some choice bits of loveliness in the darkest corners of the shop. He had poked aimlessly among broken joss sticks, quaint incense burners and all manner of things, until, in the lap of a battered Buddha, he found Jade God, a little idol only four inches high but carved out of such beautiful jade that it seemed to be moulded instead of carved. The figure was neither man nor Forty- Two