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

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above the bedlam of the crowd. It ' s an orphan asylum. Poor kids! I wonder If they ' ll make it. Boy! what a story loaded with dynamite. No straight news this. But got to get the facts anyway. The reporter elbowed de- terminedly through the dense, jostling crowd. Then he fired questions at the laboring firemen who were too busy to answer, tried to pump the police, who told him to get back on the sidewalk. But finally, after hours of feverish hunting, Crawford got the details and phoned them in to the city editor. Great work, Crawford, came Nelson ' s voice. The rewrite men ' ll attend to this story. I ' ve got something else for you. Boy out in Sunnyside, Queens. Swallowed a whistle. Every time you pull his left ear the whistle blows somewhere down in his throat. It ' s a great human interest story. Cover it. We ' ll box it near the fudge column, where it ' s sure to be noticed. And so on. From Queens Crawford went to Wall Street to get copy on a savings bank that had attempted to do acrobatics with the money of its deposit- ors. From Wall Street, to the Central Park Zoo, where a monkey was annoying an elephant with uproarious results. And from there back to the office, to check in, do a bit of proofre ading on the home edition, rewrite the hash a cub had made of some small assignment, and take an emergency turn at the teletype. Then he was dismissed for the day, with a commendatory jest by the city editor. Good job, Crawford. If this keeps up we ' ll have to send you as our correspondent in the next war. Well s ' long. Goodbye, Mr. Nelson, grinned Crawford. the offer. I ' ll think it over. And thanks for And when late that night the newspaperman retired, hungry and tired, to the little Italian restaurant around the corner, the waiter, coiling spaghetti on Crawford ' s plate, asked him: Anything new in the papers today, Mr. Crawford? Johnny Crawford hitched his chair closer to the table and at- tacked the spaghetti. No, Tony, he replied absentmindedly, just the usual things. Nothing new ever happens to the newspaper busi- II ness . . . NINETY-FIVE

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to the judge ' s chambers swung open and Judge Stewart entered, he stood up with the rest of the hushed spectators. Judge Stewart opened court; they sat down again and Crawford scribbled some descriptive background as Judge Stewart said gravely: Will the prisoner please rise? To the accompaniment of flashlight flares from the photographers, there stepped up before the judge ' s dais a squat, heavy jowled man with sullen lips. A fit pawn for the chess game of law. Have - you - anything - to - say - why - sentence of this court shall not be passed upon you? the judge intoned mechanically, with the rapidity which years of routine had given him. Sulkily, with a shake of his head, the prisoner vetoed the judge ' s request. And Judge Stewart looked down at the convicted killer and remarked without further preamble: It is the order of this court that you be taken to the New York State Prison at Ossining, and there be put to death during the week of July 17 in the manner provided by the laws of this state. The condemned man snarled under his breath. The crowded courtroom rustled. And Crawford took down verbatim the condemna- tion, rode back to the office, where he played up the story in a two- column spread with a long tie-in, as per orders. Then he slugged each page killer and carted his copy over to the city editor, who dropped it after a glance on a copywriter ' s desk. All right, Crawford, he said. Here ' s something else. Kennedy, our best man In Fire Headquarters, phoned in about a fire in Coney Island. Look into it, will you? Okay, Mr. Nelson. A few minutes later Crawford plunked another nickel into a subway turnstile and rode to the outlying district where the fire had been reported. And fire it was. The usual jostling crowd, the usual blazing structure and the usual blinding heat, the usual number of — wait! there were one-two-three — yep! four hook and ladder companies there! Must be something important. He asked his neighbor, What ' s the building that ' s burning? Do you know? The neighbor turned. The building, he shouted to Crawford NINETY.FOUR

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CENTURIE AVANTI by John Ripandelli A few years ago I went to Italy to live. Although I went with the firm intention of returning to America as soon as possible, I did not know when I should see my country again. Fortunately I was able to return much sooner than I expected, so that my sojourn in that coun- try has remained fixed in my mind as a pleasant two-year lark. One of the remembrances which I have carried away with me, and which I shall probably never forget, is this little story I am going to tell. Because of my Italian parentage I was obliged to join the Fascist youth organi- zation. I remember having a hard time trying to find a uniform that would fit me, for Italians are generally of a small stature. After a great deal of trouble I finally suc- ceeded in completing my uniform which consisted of a grey-green alpine hat, a thin, black cotton shirt, grey-green flannel pants, leggings of the same material and color, and high black shoes. That same week I received a notice commanding me to appear at headquarters the following Sunday morning. Sunday morning came. It was a cold, dreary day, but that could not be given as an excuse for not appear- ing, so I started putting on my uniform as best I could. When I reached headquarters, I found the courtyard already full. The officers, who were easily discernible because of the silver or gold stripes they wore on their sleeves, were trying to arrange the boys in ranks. One saw me standing there; he hurriedly came over, told me to join the others as soon as I had left my overcoat in one of the empty rooms, and hurried away. Before long everyone was satisfied with our appearance and the Avanti, or Forward March, command was given. None of us knew where we were going. The excercise helped to keep us all warm; many in the ranks were in a happy mood and began to sing patriotic songs. Soon everyone joined in the singing. I did not know the songs, but when anyone chanced to look my way, I diligently opened and closed my mouth as if I were singing. They all sang as loudly as they could; no doubt many a late sleeper must have cursed us in his own inimitable manner that morning. After an hour ' s march our centuria (a body of one hundred men) was halted in the big square facing the railroad station; this came as a surprise, NINETY-SIX