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

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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

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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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II The evening is intolerably hot. From my window seat in the hotel opposite the Union Station, I am gazing down upon that great, square building, lit up and apparently vibrant with the mechanical and human energy being expended in it. The towering stone walls, marble columnades, and stone flights of steps give it an appearance of dignity which is soon belied by the soot on the walls and on the high arched windows. An endless procession of taxi cabs scurry up, discharge their loads, and scurry away. 4'Red Caps hurry up, show rows of shining teeth, take your valises, and disappear. The immense, Neon-lighted clock over the entrance beams benevolently on the passers-by, hurrying them up or slow- ing them down, according to his whims. To my right I can see a corner of the rail- road yard. The unloading platform appears in it, with a row of freight cars being emptied. The stevedores' naked backs glisten as they pass to and fro under the powerful lamps. I took down my old brown bag and dusted it oil' . . . III The steward showed me to my seat at a table for six in the dining room. A man in a black dinner jacket sat opposite me. His unmistakable appearance caused me to chuckle reminiscently, for it was over fifteen years since I had seen his type on a trans- Atlantic liner. He was a professional gam- bler. Perfect example of the 'Gpoker face. His eyes expressed nothing, while his pale complexion gave evidence of sleepless nights in smoke-filled rooms. His hands were long, well-kept, and slim, the hands of a man of talent in a profession where the old adage, The hand is quicker than the eye, must be proven again and again. His clothes were well-cut, but worn, and of a style outmoded by several years. He looked at me for a moment and, evi- dently dissatisfied by what he saw, turned and gazed at a man seated at a nearby table. This fellow was the direct opposite of my aloof companion. He ate with enjoyment and noisy evidence of it. He had a pink, frank face that could conceal nothing, and inno- cent blue eyes that took in all the sights of a first trip abroad. page f0l'ly-four