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

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SIDE-SHOW by Daniel I. Rothbaum Step right up, ladies and gentlennen, and for the tenth part of a dollar see the greatest array of freaks ever presented before an American audience. Fronn the heights of the twelfth floor we bring you a red-bearded nnan who will thrill you as he cowers into submission any Latin pony that happens to invade his room. Or a man, short in stature, the terror of the ninth floor, who will enter a cage unarmed to do battle with a dozen ferocious T. D. ' s. But first and foremost we offer you what we consider the most unique, terrific, colossal, tremendous, gigantic exhibit of all, the Harris snobs, as queer a group of individuals as ever picked up de peps in the lunch room. Walking along the tenth floor we meet him of the Arts and Letters Society. A prime requisite of an A. L. S. S. is an icy stare. He is indignant when you con- fuse him with a member of the Art So- ciety. They are painters; he an artist. This term his nose went still higher. He is thinking of the shiny new $40 victrola. Like the bit of harmony geometrically inclined, his brain goes round and round. Whoops! Max Smith, he of entrance exam fame, has unknowingly, we sup- pose, bred his own particular brand of snob. They are interested in nothing but marking entrance exam papers, and take particular pride in having stayed later than anyone else the day of the exam. Mimicking their creator, they have everything down to a system. They never dare murmur while in their master ' s den, but once outside there is no holding them. They rattle off long, complicated formulas until you, and they, are dizzy. They are a proud product of his Phi Beta Kappa mind. I am the Lord thy God. Stooge! Last, and contrary to custom, least, is the Senior snob. He ' s been stepped on all his life and now he ' s ruler of the roost. His senior hat perched precariously on his head threatens to fall off at any mo- ment. His nose rides in the air, and you are sure that if he Is so foolish as to sneeze It will knock him flat on his back. The senior button he wears glistens In the sun as he happily struts along. Only one cloud darkens his horizon. He ' s buttered his bread; now he ' ll have to sleep In it. HI-Ho! And all this for the slight sum of ten cents, one dime, the tenth part of a dollar. All right folks, don ' t shove. There ' s plenty of room for all. How many, sir? NINETY-NINE

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grown colder, not even the stannping of feet and the clapping of hands helped much now. Adding to the general uncomfortable feeling was the torture of having to smell the fragrant odor of coffee coming from a cafe behind us, and of being prevented from slipping in to drink a cup of that stimulating beverage. At the end of another hour there was a general restlessness in the ranks. Officers had to keep a sharp lookout for anyone who tried to sneak away to get himself something hot to drink, for if one were to start, a general stampede would have followed. Suddenly a blare of trumpets was heard, a hush fell over the ranks, and amid this silence the Secretary of Education inspected row after row of Avanguardisti. Once the inspection was over, the welcome order to march was given. On coming out of a comparatively quiet street, we found our- selves marching up the main street of the village. The band was playing, flags were flying from every house top, and hundreds of people lined the street to watch us go by. I was bewildered, although the others around me were living an exciting moment. I could see it in their faces. But this moment was short-lived, and the intermin- able wait began again. The trains that were to take us home did not arrive for another two hours. Fortunately discipline was more lax, and it was possible to slip away to some warm cafe. Night had fallen before the trains arrived, and when they did, we lost no time in getting into the cars to get out of the cold night air. We were all eager to get home to the hot dinners we knew were waiting for us. A few of those in the railroad compartment with me who knew the use of the bathtub besides that of storing oil-flasks, rubbers, shoes, and umbrellas in it, were telling each other of the hot baths they were going to take. I could go on like this indefinitely, but since this is the best time to take leave of them, we bid farewell to these young fascists, war- riors of the future. C =sjC= NINETY-EIGHT

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ODE TO A HARRISITE by Lloyd Ulman Oh I could write a saga ' Bout the ships that sail the sea, And I could write a sonnet To a lassie who ' d love me; And I could sing of battles Ot the boys in gray and blue — Or I could pen a line of verse, My Harrisite, to you. Yes I could nnake you handsome In a rhythmic, well-turned line, (And though you ' re four foot ten, my lad, I ' d make you five foot nine!) I ' d renovate you, Harrisite I ' d purify you so. That though your sins as scarlet are. They ' d be as white as snow. I ' d write you such a tribute That when all was said and done, You ' d be transformed, O Harrisite, You ' d be a man my son! And you ' d be greatly flattered (Though you ' d sagely say, How true! ) To see a perfect creature that Most clearly wasn ' t you! Oh, I could sing your praise To a blushing sunset sky — Your noble brow, your brawny arm, Firm chin, and flashing eye. Yes I could make you perfect; You ' d like it lad, but still I love the truth, my Harrisite, So darn me if I will! ONE HUNDRED