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

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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

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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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FLOOD by Sol Youngworth Run for your lives! The dam has given v ay! Run! Li ke v ild- fire the nnessage spread through the town. Run! The dam has given way! We ' ll all be drowned! Shouts rose to shrieks, screams. People dashed madly, wild-eyed, through the streets, clutching their loved ones and precious belongings. Jostling, pushing, the frightened people ran be- serk. Pandemonium reigned. Dashing up a flight of crooked basement steps came a furtive-looking individual, hatless, tie- less, coatless. He looked wide-eyed at the jostling throng. A struggling police- man bellowed, This way, everybody, this way! Calm now! Take it easy! Hey you, by the steps, this way! Calm now! There are trains waiting to take you out! Stop shoving! Trains are . . . The furtive-looking individual paused for a moment in indecision. The jostling crowd began to thin out. Wheeling, the man plunged back into the basement, three steps at a time. He ran into a dirty windowless little room which contained a battered old cot. The floor was strewn with cigarette butts. Slamming the door violently, the man plunged for a battered valise that was under the cot. Wrenching it open, he looked hurriedly within. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. He slammed the valise shut. Clutching it tightly, he dashed to the door and fumbled feverishly with the knob. The door refused to budge. A muttered damn escaped the man ' s lips. He pulled, tore, kicked the door, but to no avail. It refused to budge. Beads of sweat came out on his forehead. The man pounded on the door, yelled, shouted, screamed — but to no avail. The door refused to budge. The man ran his fingers through his hair feverishly. He looked about him, wild-eyed, hair disheveled. He ran to the opposite wall, pounded, yelled — but to no avail. Suddenly, there came a gushing, tearing sound. The flood, the flood, it ' s here! screamed the man. I ' ll be drowned! With a solid impact, a wall of water plunged down the alley and hit the door. The door was thick. It held. Inside, the man became panic- stricken. Water, coming in through the spaces between door and casement, began flooding the room. Wild-eyed, the man sloshed through the water to the cot. Tearing a blanket as he went, he splashed back through the knee-high water to the door. Gasping ONE HUNDRED AND ONE