Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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32 Tl-lli HARRIS ANNUAL THE VOICE OF THE VIOLIN Sz MIDST the confusing noises and shouts that pealed forth Q from the massive tenement houses whose tops were crim- soned by the fading rays of the November sun there were lggsyx heard the sad and melodious tunes of a violin. The brisk and chilly autumn wind took up the sweet notes and spread them through the yard in which the player stood. He was a gray- haired, wretchedly clad beggar, and as his sweet, pathetic strains filled the narrow inclosure, the discordant voices around were grad- ually silenced. About him was gathered a crowd of eager-faced, bright-eyed chil- dren, listening attentively to the music. The sight of his ardent auditors seemed to move the old man, for two pearly tears rolled down his meagre, wrinkled cheeks and were lost in his long gray beard. The golden hair, untroubled blue eyes, and innocent smiles of the youngsters seemed to recall to his mind scenes very dear, very near and very holy to him. Meanwhile, in response to its masterls emotions, the violin expanded its sweet, gentle tunes into a wonderful vibrant melody. lt was soul-stirring music! The passionate tunes spoke of the life of the old beggar, of his joys and sorrows, of his hopes and disap- pointments. It told how, many years ago, during his childhood days, far away in likaterineslov, in the southern part of Russia, he resolved to achieve happiness and success. It recorded vividly the happiest moments of his life, when his cup of bliss was filled to the brim, and he became first a husband, then a father. The past delightful after-marriage life arose like a fantastic dream before Joshuais eyes. He began to perceive mentally the blissful evenings he used to spend in his cheerful home. After the evening meal he would take up his violin and play many a melodious air. He still possessed a realistic image of his golden-haired little David sitting near him, and with his beautiful blue eyes gazing at the instru- ment and its kind master. On his imagination was still vividly por- trayed the touch-scenes when, with his loyal instrument, he lulled his little David to sleep. Especially was one Saturday evening of a by- gone winter stamped upon his memory. That evening was the last of his quiet, gentle flowing life: it was the last time that the little family was united about a cozy hearth, it was the last time that David heard the soft strains of his father's violin playing his own beautiful composition, Oh, Child, My Childf, lt was for the last time that the little one felt the loving motherly kiss on his full red lips and his crown of golden hair. For the next morning the merciless whirl of Russian hatred and barbarism that had ruined so many peaceful Jewish families had also swept the town of Ekaterineslov. The scenes of that horrible Sunday morning came back to him with all its dread. He heard the fiendish yells of the savage Russians like those of demons let loose for ravage and plunder. He saw once more the flying forms of men, women and children, running, stumbling before the murderous tempest, and falling into the very jaws of death.

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NINIITEEN-THIRTEEN-FOURTEEN 31 desire to close with a tribute to the school that farmed one, fashioned three of the best years of his life, is strong upon me. But the realization of my incapacity is equally as strong. It is with a trembling pen and shuddering lip that I invoke the name of the graduating class. In the name of the graduating class, that is no longer to be a part of you, that remained under your care--your Alma-lllatronly care for three years-that owes all it ran boast to your training and development, that will owe all that it will ever lvoast of in the future to the bias you gave it, that can remember you, your dear halls, the corridors that will be filled for it with the romance of fond uicniories, only with thazzksgizing, tempered with regrets, I close this history of you-Oh my School. With the hope that your succeeding history will be just as glorious, that your station among the schools will be just as high, if not higher, and that future classes will regard you just as dearly, with just as much tenderness on leaving you as the Upper fl Class of June, 1914. TO ALMA MATER I VI XVe come, we go. Our life is spanned By sonorous throbbings in a tower, By numbers drawing hour from hour The index of the clock's black hand. II Three years. And yet a day ago, It seems we entered through this door, Life's crucible and we the ore, And never is Time, the goldsmith, slow. III Three years. Three chapters of a dream, A memory to a memory stirred, A dream-shaped treasure in a word. So short, but yesterdays they seem. IV Where are the thorn-wreath's on Time's brow? Where are the shrunken cheeks and eye? Time is a smile and not a sigh The mist between the then and now. V The then of fearg the now of hope. The always of our love to thee, The always of our love to be, Recalled in Time's Kaleidoscope. XI We come, we go. Oh that our life, The perfect fruit of a pefect earth, Here nourished to a new rebirth, M,ight turn thy training to its strife. VII , And to the world of men bequeath Another hero born of fame, To history, another name. To awe another life to breathe. VIII We come, we gog and when the day That waits upon a term to close, Shall put upon its sky a rose, The spell of parting wastes away. IX That day has come and we must go. We face no pigmy worlds, that truth Had conquered for us in our youth. The worlds are great and we are low X Oh Alma Mater we must: part, What if the parting is a spell That witchery has woven well Around the shreddings of a heart? We gog but 'tis not to forget Oh Alma Mater, so each tower, Each golden image of this hour Shall hold our memories in debt.

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NINHTEEN-THIRTEEN-FOURTEEN 33 Then the crash of window panes, desperate screams, moans, plead- ings, all mingled with hellish shouts, re-echoed in his ears. Brutal faces, bloody hands, distorted and mangled bodies swept by him. Then cafne a crash on his head and everything grew dark and dim around him, voices died off in the distance, and all became quiet. lYhen he awoke, he found himself on one of several white beds in a spacious room, on which moaning forms were sitting or lying. His first impulse was to cry out for his wife and child, but he found himself too weak to utter a word. And it was after a long illness, after he had left the hospital, that he learned that his cup of sorrow had overliown. His wife was mortally wounded and his little David had vanished, and no trace could be found of him. In vain did loshua search every nook for his lost son. Fate seemed to have completely turned against him. Dejected, worn out and despairing of all hopes of ever finding David, Ioshua Michaelson resolved to leave the land of terrors and seek a new home where he might forget his disasters. Naturally, he turned to America. But his sorrows had too deeply pierced his heart, and, try as he would, the memories of his experiences recurred in his mind. As the gloomy days passed by, Joshua, weakened by physical labor and tortured mentally by the recollection of the catastrophies of his ex- istence, felt his vitality and strength gradually but surely failing him. In but a short time fate dealt him its last malicious blow. The once vigorous business man of Ekaterineslov became incapable of earning his livelihood: he was reduced to the state of an alms-seeker. It was only during that state that joshua became oblivious to his past. That was the tale that the violin told, the story of a glorious day followed by a long, drear, dreadful night. As if suddenly awakened from a dream, the beggar stopped playing. A shudder ran through his weary body. He began to tremble, and a fearful but anticipating thought Hashed through his mind, 'KVVhat does it all mean? Is it a heavenly premonition of my end? During my long years as a beggar the thoughts of the past have never found place in my sluggish memory-and, now, now it all comes back. Is it my last glimpse at my past? It must be V' Then a sudden inspiration came to him. Before eternal sleep should overwhelm him, he must again play his own little composition, the lullaby that he used to play to his little David. No sooner thought than done. Grasping the neck of the violin with one hand and the bow with the other, he began. As the sweet strains were being diffused through the narrow yard, a window suddenly opened and a young man, astonishment and bewil- derment plainly depicted on his features, looked down upon the beggar, and listened attentively. ' Never in all his existence had Joshua concentrated his faculties upon a task as he did in endeavoring to play his cradle song, Oh, Child, My Child ! I Overwhelmed by the acute pain of his doleful recollections, and weakened by a three days' fast, the wretched ruin of the once vigorous man sank on the dirty pavement of the tenement yard near his only