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

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along the way beseeched me to turn back. An early owl screeched a shrill warning, but I was determined to prove that the story of my Italian guide was a superstitious rumor. I selected a spot about ten yards from the entrance, wl1icl1 was in a hillside, and sat down to wait. The entrance was nothing but a square, black hole, that frustrated my at- tempts to peer into its depths. A white pil- lar, broken off about three feet from its base in front of the entrance, gave it the appear- ance of a huge, gaping jaw. The sun had set entirely by this time, and an ominous stillness made the night ring in my ears. At last, what I was waiting for ap- peared. An eerie light fiickered for a mo- ment and disappeared. A low wailing issued forth from the very bowels of the place. The light reappeared a moment later and bathed the grounds around me in a fierce glow. The low wailing grew into a solemn chant. I waited not for the result of this phenom- enon, but got up and dashed ignominously away along the protecting road by which I had come. VII I hastened up to the crowd of natives and policemen standing around something lying prostrate in the sand. It was the body of an old beach comber whom I had seen several times during my short stay in Hawaii. Half- buried in the sand was a leather-bound note- book, which I pocketed hastily and, as the crowd melted away, proceeded to read. 4'0n the beach again. I am sitting in the scant shade of a palm tree and gazing at the familiar scene about me. '4The long, low waves rush up at me with a sullen roar. Each one scolds me in the same tone my schoolmaster used to use, but all say the same thing. 'G 'On the beach again . . .' '6The extinct volcano in the distance, tow- ering above the clouds in all its ugliness and majesty, frowns down upon me. A few Kanaka divers race for home in their out- rigged canoes. Their gleeful voices reach me on the late afternoon breezes, and I am jeal- ous of their simple existence. A rusty, red hulled steamer sails swiftly by. It is going home. I can picture everything aboard it, from the loose speaking tube in the engine page forty-seven

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many years, was still smiling sardonically down upon the gaping throngs . . . Paul greeted me enthusiastically and re- galed me with anecdotes and prophesies of his soon expected triumph as a playwright, but with no substance. We supped at Le Couchon Rouge, where the same crowd still settled the world's problems amidst an un- worldly clamor and read, played, or ex- hibited their masterpieces amidst much sin- cere criticism. Wfhile sipping our beers, I asked the question that was uppermost in my mind. G4Whatever happened to Marie?', She married M. Henoch, a prominent producer. 'tNot Ignatius! I cried, forgetting Marie at the sudden shock. Yes, Ignatius, morosely replied Paul. He decided that he'd make a better producer than writer, and so he did. We sat in silence for a while. And she said she'd wait, we both re- marked simultaneously. Paul sprang up with a shout, his face turn- ing a dangerous red. '6Traitor! At this moment one of his few and far- between sparks of brilliancy burst into flame, and he collapsed into his chair. Why didn't I think of it before ? he mut- tered. 6'We can use Marie to persuade Ig- natius to produce my play. 6'Why we ? I asked, with a feeling of trepi- dation, for I remembered Paul's schemes of old. But there was no avoiding it. That night we called on Marie at her sumptuous apart- ment. She was not a slim dancer any more, but she still had her exuberant spirits, as I found out to my sorrow late that night. All I can remember is that the party gained members and black cats as it went along. I have a confused recollection of throwing sour candy balls at some swans and holding a gendarme down while Marie gave him a close haircut with a pair of pliers. I woke up in a second class compartment of the Rome express with a splitting headache and a horse-shoe tied to the lapel of my coat. 66 VI A feeling of dread and mystery fell upon me long before I came in sight of the cata- combs, long before I reached the thorned, dried shrubs about it. The gnarled oaks page forty-six

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, w wf ' n'Q -p ' y 2 ly Tfl f room to the bridge, knocked awry by a fall- ing crane during a monsoon that cost me my master's ticket. The sandy shore extends for miles on either side of me. It is not clean and white like Faringford Beach, just below the Manor, in the autumn, but tawny and scarred, lit- tered with iiasks and broken bottles that glitter in the rays of the setting sun, rotting driftwood, cast upon the shore like . . . I tossed the book as far out to sea as I could, and prayed that he might forgive me for reading as far as I did. VIII I am back at my desk again, hearing fa- miliar sounds and passing through familiar situations, but the great burden of unrest has been removed from my heart. A thousand separate melodies, a thousand separate rhythms--the paper is going to press . . . 66 G .SUCCESS Now Apollo's chariot ends Its course across the sky, Now the Workman homeward wends With many a weary sigh. Dull and drear is the dragging day For them whose efforts lead to nought, For them who toil and them who may Achieve not what they sought. 'Tis not creations by our souls That make the hours flee, For oft attained, those conquered goals Refuse to set us free. Ambition kindles in our breast A craving for success, And though we've far surpassed the best, Passed, too, is happiness. So 'tis not greatness of the deed That makes a day well born, But the achievement of that need For which we aimed at morn. Then, when Dian in silver dress, Smiles down on Mother Earth, If 'twas a day of true success, It was a day of worth, And thus a day of happiness, An eve of joy and mirth. Henry Maas. Page forty-eight