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

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THE BROOK fA translation from Karolina Rudolphij O, brook of silver hue and clear, You hasten by, forever here, Whilst I on bank do deeply ponder, From where you come, to where you wander? I come from dark and rocky bowers, My course goes over moss and flowers, And o'er my surface hovers gently, The deep blue sky's reflection friendly. Wherefore am I of joyful spirit? It drives me on, I just flow with its, Who called me from yon dark inside- He, I think, will be my Guide. Eugene M. Lang. I THE ROMANTIC PLEA By Maximilian Price The pen was made for the delight of man, Ere discontent the world o'erran, And only to soothe and refresh the mind, For such a purpose-and only that kind. To degrade the base it was not created, Nor worldly evils has it motivatedg But garnished human thoughts with art, Of meditation has gmade beauty part. Give me not the cynic's gloomy view of life, A world of nought but passion and of strife, For where the fire burns bright with blazing light There Roinance and I shall spend the night, With Chaucer and Spenser, and the greatest Bard, With aristocratic Milton, the Muses' guard, Whose grave is marked with Memory's mound, Reading his verses of magnificent sound. Burning Shelley, shedding an angry tear, To mourn Adonais' brief career, All--all still live before my eyes- The charm of Romance has made me wise. Give me no childish rhymes that deride, What is to some fool his only pride, No, give me a song, splendid yet fine, P1189 forty-two

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to continue with the sportg and Jaime was quickly lifted to a stretcher and carried to the hospital, behind the arena. Coming out of the room in which they had put the boy, the doctor collided with a girl. A tearful girl it was, a girl no longer looking gay, without her scarlet shawl, a rose droop- ping behind her ear. Doctor-the-Jaime 2 Young fool,,' commented the man, un- pleasantly. No use of my wasting time here on him. Some good horses over there I have to sew up for the next bull. Thereis a man with him. Jaime, suddenly becoming conscious of voices, thought he recognized one of them. He tried to see, but the haze, that misty white haze, was still there. He turned feebly, at- tempted to speak, but the pain was agonizing, and he subsided. But the movement had been noticed. Jaime! from Solita. How peculiar her voice sounded! It was easy . . . I could have done it . . . your shawl . . . too long. . . The first words hard to understand, the last almost entirely undecipherable. Jaime stirred. Ceuta is still a very Spanish town. And its people still like bullfights. But the nags of the picadors are padded now, so that the bulls cannot gore them so badly. Solita has grown fatter. She, too, has retained her love for the Toros. She no longer has any ardent admirers, so she must take her greatest pleas- ure in telling the young ones how ua man once fought a bull for herf' But they do not know who it was. Solita never says that Jaime was killed. VV V page forty-one

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RAMBLINGS By Victor Friedman I . I have come to a long planned decision. I have just left the office with my last pay envelope. The chief was not surprised, as I could tell by his parting remark: 64Roam around to your heart's content, then come back to your fires, Rotary luncheons, and iight passes. If there's a position open, Iill give it to you. Good-bye and good luck. So here I am, eager to begin my second Wanderjahr. A thousand separate melodies, a thousand separate rhythms-the paper is going to press. The clackety-clack, clackety-clack of the presses, the hiss of the hot lead being poured into the forms, the thumping of quarter-ton rolls of paper being rolled along the floor are all molded into a discordant, mighty roar. The cause of this upheaval is ten stories farther up, directed by the editor-in-chief. The telegraph room-a long line of green shaded operators, each with his instrument clicking before him. Hong Kong, Paris, The Hague, San Francisco-all are pouring their modern gossip into his trained ears. The city room-long lines of desks. Typewriters, im- pelled by men busily recording their day's assignments, chatter incessantly. Farther down the monotonous thump of the linotype machines drowns out the preoccupied whis- tling of the type setters. The paper is going to press . . . The train is pounding into the station. One slight shove from the mob around me and Pd be crushed beneath those shining wheels. We are packed inside the train like the pro- verbial sardines. The roar is deafening, and the shuddering jars causes the animated sar- dines to sway in unwilling unison. Hot breaths cause the short hairs on my neck to stand up in revulsion. A girl crushed between two huskies is reading 64When Knighthood Was In Flower. page forty-three ml' X' ' ENE ' VIVYTIIB fffllflfll i l' Qi. st