Though the four cabinets holding bundles of old Tattler issues (and other random objects) have never quite kept a distinct location, their history remains the same. Being archivist of The Tattler allows me to explore the tales and stories that once lived in the halls of IHS. Whether you enjoy history a lot or not as much, I’m sure you’ll find something you’ll enjoy in this section. Without further ado, here’s just a handful of these pieces, dating all the way back to 1892!
September 1974
Welcome Back
The Tattler would like to say “Welcome back” to everyone and special greetings to all IHS sophomores, new entrants, and new staff members.
So, another school year has begun, usually with most of us wishing it hadn’t, but, don’t despair. Had a good summer? Good. Get ready for an even better school year. The senior class promises to be quite productive, as will, I’m sure, the sophomore and junior classes. Also, take advantage of Student Association. If you’ve got a reasonable gripe, let your English class rep know about it. Student Association can serve you only if YOU use it.
Sophomores and new students, you’ll find at least thirty-five clubs and activities to choose from at IHS. The key to enjoying a school of over 1900 students is in two words: GET INVOLVED. School, for you, will only be what you put into it. Club meetings and activities will be publicized in The Tattler, so you can count on us to keep you posted. Also, DO listen to WIHS in the mornings. What’s happening cushion period may not be as interesting as talking to Sue or Sally about what happened to so-and-so over the weekend, but the WIHS staff works very hard to keep you informed and a little bit of your attention in homeroom is, believe me, greatly appreciated. Teachers, we’re counting on your cooperation regarding this matter as well. If you have an announcement you want aired, have it written, signed by the faculty member involved, and bring it to Mrs. Waterman’s office (in B building) the afternoon BEFORE it’s to be announced.
A word on skipping—you’ll find life a little easier if you go to classes. Scheduling at IHS is quite flexible, allowing students free periods to do what they wish. But if you’ve got a class, go to it. Okay—so it’s boring? Fake it. To do this, fix eyes just above a teacher’s head for forty-eight minutes. If called on, explain that it was quite hard to concentrate on the lesson because of the awesome hairdo of Mr. or Mrs. Such-and-such. (No good? Oh well.) Personality clash? Go to the teacher and talk about it. Not being in class only causes more of a lack of communication and no matter how much you think you’re gaining, you’re not. You’ll lose. More truancy means more rules, more rules mean less freedom, less freedom means more gripes, and more gripes only mean a grumpier IHS for EVERYBODY. And that—we can do without. Right??
Perhaps again this year, a couple of Human Relations festivals? What a better way to get involved in human relations than to get involved in Human Relations? Talk to J. Waterman (in B again). If she’s not in her office, check the Tattler office right down the hall, where she and James Pullman will be our co-advisors this year. If you don’t catch her there, leave a message or put on some roller skates and good luck. Many students really got into the 50s scene last year. We had two successful nostalgic dances. (It was a little hard to recognize a few people that you THOUGHT you knew.) Like the idea of continuing 50s activities? Tell your English class rep.
We hope you’ll enjoy this first issue of the year. (No, it won’t be our last). As you can tell, we’re a different size and format and we hope to increase our staff of, well, about two people, at this time. Contributions are welcome from teachers, as well as students, and our staff is also open to faculty members. Tattler is a school newspaper and will represent YOU, not its staff. Steve and I plan to do our best to produce a newspaper that you want. So if you’d like to help us out, let us know, in B-6 in the activities building.
Good luck for a great year.
Wanda Penalver
Co-editor
PS: Don’t forget to:
Pick up PSAT/NMSQT, ACT, SAT, and ACH (I think that’s all of ’em) applications in the guidance office; buy everything you need for school at the IHS bookstore in K building; and keep the cafeteria CLEAN!
January 1930
Regents!
What a world of meaning is contained in that one small word. Temporary success for some, temporary failure for others. For forty long weeks in most subjects, twenty equally long weeks in the rest, the teachers of our high school have been doing their best to impart to their aspiring students the much needed knowledge for the week affectionately called “Regents’ Week” that is so soon to come. They have done their best.
Now, fellow-students of the Ithaca High School, it’s up to us to prove to them and to those through whose efforts we are able to go to this high school, that that effort has not been wasted. Not merely by passing the Regents, for they are the least important part of each course, of being used. Probably some, for one reason or another, will fail. Others, through lack of application, will likewise fail to meet the required sixty-five percent, but whether they pass or fail, those who have done their best, though temporarily set back, will not be permanently blocked from their goal—success. As for the others, the less said the better. Therefore, let’s make this fight with the Regents a complete victory for the students of the Ithaca High School.
September 1898
September
At eve, cool shadows fall
Across the garden wall,
And on the clustered grapes to purple turning;
And pearly vapors lie
Along the eastern sky,
Where the broad harvest moon is redly burning.
Ah, soon on field and hill
The wind shall whistle chill,
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together,
To fly from frost and snow,
And seek for lands where blow
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.
Yet though a sense of grief
Comes with the falling leaf,
And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant,
In all my autumn dreams
A future summer gleams,
Passing the fairest glories of the present!
—George Arnold
January 1898
San Paulo, Brazil
December 1, 1897
Remembering that, in my time in the IHS, the editors of The Tattler had rather a hard time securing the contributions for their paper, it occurred to me that a few of the sights seen by an old student of the High School might be of a little interest. It was only 4:30 in the morning when my kind entertainers, during my short stay in Rio Janeiro, awoke me and announced it was time to prepare for my journey to Sao Paulo. The proverbial cup of coffee, for which Brazil is noted, was all ready and soon finished. Then loading myself with two immense dress-suitcases, a smaller grip, and an enormous lunch done up in paper, and provided by my kind hostess, I ventured to follow my guide towards the railroad station. The fog was rolling in from the beautiful day of Rio Janeiro, almost thick enough to cut with a knife, but my guide knew his way and soon landed me in a horse car or bondé, I should have said mule car, as every thing here is drawn by mules, and it takes all the strength of the driver, who constantly lays an immense strap over their backs, to get them into anything more than a walk. If there is anything in the world which can teach those persons in the United States, who advocate governmental ownership of railroads, their mistake, it would be a trip on this Brazilian line. It is owned by the government and notwithstanding it is the only line connecting the two best cities of Brazil, is run at an annual loss. For dust and dirt and mismanagement it cannot be equalled. It has connected with it in one capacity or another about 18,000 persons who are absolutely useless, except to take the bribes. In this way the Brazilian government furnishes a living to a few of those government parasites, who are rapidly pushing to the verge of bankruptcy. But on my trip, I, by the use of a little money, secured two seats for myself, and piled my baggage around me to ward off intruders. As this was the starting point of the trip, the train was only about fifteen minutes late and at last about six o’clock I pulled out of Rio. Staring me in the face was a twelve hours’ trip on a train, probably not a person on board who could speak my language and as for me all I knew of Portuguese was “obligado” or “much obliged” and “quanto custa” or “how much,” and it is peculiar how little one has to use those expressions when he doesn’t know any other. However, I had made up my mind not to worry over trouble until it came and then not to talk about it. By reading the latest magazines only a little over a month old, and gazing at the scenery, most of which was new to me, I passed some hours until I was reminded of breakfast by seeing my fellow passengers all going for their lunch. Opening my parcel I found displayed a whole chicken roasted, fruits of all kinds and abundance, a complete English cake, and any amount of real American sandwiches. During lunch, I attempted to make a little Brazilian boy sick by feeding him cake, but his capacity was unlimited and I gave it up as a bad job. His mother took absolutely no notice of either the boy or me, during this interesting operation, but his old nurse, after calmly watching me break two blades of my jack-knife on the cork of a bottle which I found in my lunch, the color of which denoted something good, offered me a cork-screw, and appendage which a Brazilian always carries. I accepted with thanks, and handed back with the same remarks I had made upon receiving it. After breakfasting I began on the scenery again and some of it was grand. This road crosses the coast range of mountains, climbing in its three hundred and ten miles some 2,500 feet. We passed through fifteen tunnels altogether in the second one of which the engine playfully ran away from the rest of the train and if it had not been for the airbrakes, which stopped us as we started back down hill, I doubt not but that they would have been fishing for us in Rio harbor yet. About half way up we passed the down train (they run only one each way on this road) and while I was leaning out of my window taking note of my surroundings I heard an unmistakable English voice hail and another reply from the passing train. If you want to know joy on hearing your own language spoken just pass about eight hours without a soul to speak to, and yet hear every one talking around you. With a light heart I started on a tour of exploration through the train hunting for the owner of the voice and soon found a young Englishman, who kindly piloted me through the rest of my journey. As we had to change cars once this assistance was of value to me and it was with great pride I persuaded him to share my chicken. But everything must have an end, this letter as well as my journey, and it was about eight o’clock that evening, only two hours late, that the train rolled into the station of Sao Paulo. Here I was warmly greeted by the friends I had come to find, also by a fog which they told me was not the same one I had left in Rio. All’s well that ends well.
Very sincerely,
W. ERNEST BROWN, D.D.S
IHS ’93