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

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34 THE HARRIS ANNUAL and last friend, the violin. The shrieks of the frightened children soon brought a number of people around the fainted beggar. An ele- gantly clad man, the same who had opened the window to listen to the music of the old man, pushed his way through the crowd, and kneeled down beside the body. I am a doctor,', he said authoritatively. After a short examination, he ordered the unconscious beggar to be carried inside the building. A half hour's work enabled the doctor to revive the old man. As soon as the patient was comfortably laid on a couch, the doctor asked him gently: Tell me how you come to know the music of the lullaby you just played P Ohl That was my own composition. It is a memento of a sad event. I used to play it, many years ago, to my child. Your child? lVhat was his name? asked the doctor, a little be- wildered. David, my little David, David Michaelsonf' answered the old man with tears in his eyes. The young man's face turned livid, and, with a passionate cry, he threw his arms about the old man's body, pressing it tightly to his wildly beating heart, and murmuring with fervent joy, Oh, father, my dear lost father. You are found at last l At first the beggar was in a bewildered confusion and stared va- cantly into the tearful eyes of the young doctor: but as the mist lifted from his mind he tightly clasped his hands about the physician's neck and swooned again. lVhen he awoke from his stupor, the first words that his parched lips uttered were, Oh, child, my child, can it be true that God has sent thee to me at last! Oh, David- 'iBe calm, dear father! You must rest! 'XVhen such a miracle has been performed before my very eyes? How did it happen? Tell me. The young man turned his light blue eyes to the haggard, worn out features of his old father, and in a gentle voice said: It was the Voice of the Violin, father, that brought you to my side. The throb- bing rhythm of those Hrst strains revived in a flash the slumbering memories of my childhood. Praise be to the Voice of the Violin, which has recalled a son to his long-lost father. JACOB JOEL KLANSKY.

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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

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NINETEEN-THIRTEEN-FOURTEEN 35 OVER MY GREEK lYhat shades haunt these, the words that age has writ Dead bones left bleaching on the sands of time And culled like seashells in a sun-kissed clime? The page drabbed with day's cerements, is lit XYith lights more golden than the gold of it In its noontide Hare. The pomp of hundred flags Flaunts in the zephyr's face. Sound, ravished, lags, And all the gods, enthroned observant sit. Oh, if the ardors of a Sapphic dream XYith its wild lyric note of lawless love, Oh, if the epic march of Homer teem XYith notes vouchsafed but to the Gods above. Like silent wraiths my soul in full redeem Come bearing it to some Elysian grove. Dear Mother From the first bugle call to the last faint retreat, 'Midst the men's dying shrieks, 'midst the cannon's white heat, O'er the corpse of brave men, 'neath the riddled old flag, Your boy was there. There were flashes, were crashes, were staggers, were falls 'Neath the dark, grim, cold steel, 'neath the fast-whizzing balls, At the head of mad legions, with shrill calling blares, Your boy was there. Giving orders here and there, cheering men everywhere, Helping fallen and fighting 'neath the powder's white Hare. Running forward, running backward, oler the blood-soaked earth, Your boy was there. Though your boy neler will tell of the deeds done that day, Though your boy ne'er will march o'er the homeward way, XVhen the troops come marching by, proudly hold your head on high For remember From the first bugle call to the last faint retreat, 'Midst the men's dying shrieks, 'midst the cannon's white heat, O'er the corpse of brave men, 'neath the riddled old flag, Your boy was there.