Who would’ve thought that in a dusty corner of IHS, a little room with pink walls holds just a few cabinets with bundles of old Tattler issues? As the Tattler Archivist, I get 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 a few pieces from the Tattler’s past!
May 1927
HIBOU
Hibou was the most aristocratic of the owls. His family on both sides was of ancient standing, and his studio in the great oak by the castle wall has been the family abode of his ancestors for centuries.
But now everything that his forefathers had known was gone. The chateau had fallen into ruins; all the great lords and ladies, who in former times had walked on its high terrace were dead, and even the oak which had sheltered his grandfathers for so many centuries was dead and fast falling into decay. There was nothing left—nothing but the crumbling walls, the spider webs, and the gray ghosts who walked silently under the moon.
Of course there was Pierre too. Pierre was a shepherd lad of fifteen who herded his goats in the fields near Hibou’s abode, and ever since they had made their acquaintance five years ago they had been the best of friends. Hibou was frequently annoyed by the boy and looked down at him as a foolish young child, but he always kept for him a warm spot in his heart. Beside the spiders and the ghosts, Pierre was Hibou’s only friend, and he always expected him from a visit shortly after sunrise.
Now as the spring sunlight began to touch the tree-tops and steal in long shadows across the yellow fields, Hibou sat in his studio doorway and watched for Pierre. Time passed and he did not come. The owl was getting impatient and murmuring complaints about the younger generation when at last he saw the child running up the hill, his dog and goats after him.
“I’m sorry, Hibou, that I’m late,” said Pierre on reaching the foot of the great oak tree. “I’m sorry, but you see I had to try to persuade father not to—well you see last night—”
“Kindly speak more plainly,” replied the owl blinking severely.
Pierre looked at the ground and started once more.
“Well, something has happened. I heard the men talking at the town meeting last night. They have an awful plan. They want to fix up the chateau so that some strange people can come and look at it—tourists they call them. They say that if they can induce it. They might invade the country and steal our flocks, and everything. But the terrible thing is, Hibou, that they want to fix it up around the chateau. They want to build roads and restore the castle and cut down trees. They’d probably even tear down your studio—How?” cried the owl indignantly.
“Oh, they’d chop down the great dead tree with an ax. It would be horrible.”
The owl looked at Pierre blinkingly for a few minutes.
“Are you sure this is true?” he asked solemnly.
“Yes,” said Pierre. “The whole town is excited already. I can’t even persuade after that what they want to do is foolish and wicked. Soon, perhaps, this very evening after the folks are driven home, they’ll come with picks and shovels, pick-axes, and hatchets.”
“I understand,” said the owl sonorously, and silently he flew away. Pierre stood at the foot of the tree and wondered where he was going. Slowly the great moon rose and a cold draught of air swept over the chateau. Hibou sat on a lofty turrent and watched and waited.
The great owl had done much that day. After profound contemplation, he had, at length, decided on a plan. He had flown down into the deepest dungeons of the chateau where the ghosts dwelt during the day, and there he had addressed the wisest of the phantoms. “Oh, great ghost,” he had said, “do you not see that these foolish people are attempting something terrible?” They would destroy this great castle. I think they are of evil intent. Be on your guard. Make yourselves heard and be seen tonight and defend yourselves and your rights.”
Shouting gaily a long train of merry workers with their pickaxes over their shoulders came filing up the street. As they left the town the night air being very refreshing and clear made their laughter echo and sound very joyous. Up the long hill, nearer and nearer came the advancing army, and meanwhile the owl was watching. Heedlessly they broke through the underbrush of the forest and noisily they made their way into the great hall of the castle and there they stopped.
The great owl whistled to the moon. There was a creaking sound of rusty hinges turning, a long drawn wail, the noise of muffled feet—and then a small door slowly opened and in single file a long line of ghostly figures, spear in hand, moved swaying across the hall. Then silently the phantoms turned slowly, and
steadily they approached the shrinking men. The French may be brave in battle and strong, but foes such as these pale figures are too much for the superstitious nature of any peasant. With one accord they dropped their shovels and rushed madly out of the castle—through the woods down into the village never to return.
Hibou had accomplished his purpose, and for the first time since his childhood days, the great owl laughed.
Isabel Bosworth ’27
May 1920
When It Is May
It is spring, the birds are nesting.
Whispering breezes stir the air.
Buds on maples now are bursting,
Flowers start up everywhere.
Now the orchard, growing friendly,
Please eye and list’ning ear.
And a robin, warbling softly,
Sings sweet music, “Cheer up! Cheer!”
Fluffy clouds serenely sailing
In the deep ethereal blue
Seem like wondrous ships, o’erladen,
Bound for shores far out of view.
Every day the grass grows greener,
Every moment growing things
Fill the air with humble sweetness,
They, too help to make the Spring.
When the air is soft and balmy,
And the sunshine bright and gay,
When the breeze is winged with fragrance
Then, “Rejoice, for it is May!”
E. M 221.
May 1996
I Dream Of…The Ithaca Festival
By Esi Sogah ’99
Musicians, dancers, actors, crafts. Where else can you find all these things but the Ithaca Festival? The Festival, which has been around for nineteen years, has always been a huge event for the Ithaca community.
The theme for this year’s Ithaca Festival is “Life is But a Dream.” You may remember past themes like the big ruby slippers from last year’s “There’s No Place Like Home” and all the theater groups from 1994’s “That’s Imagination.” The Ithaca Festival is a wonderful place to go with family and friends. Megan Lemley ‘99
said, “The Ithaca Festival is a great way to bring the community together and a fun way to celebrate making it through another Ithaca winter.” Located on the Ithaca Commons and at Stewart Park, the Ithaca Festival will kick off a nice hot summer starting on Friday, May 31, and running until Sunday, June 2. You can spend the day watching dances, listening to music, and, of course, eating. This year’s attractions include over 100 artists, including some young talent like the Players, We’re No Dentists, Ginger, and many more. From the number of things to be seen and done at the Festival, it’s easy to see how much work goes into it.
At the beginning of each Fall, Ithaca Festival workers start to come up with ideas for the next year’s Festival. In December the intense planning begins. Many volunteers from the community work together with the staff to bring the Festival together. The small staff for the Festival work year-round to make sure everything runs like clockwork for the days of the Festival.
One of this year’s features will be the thousand origami cranes which will be strung throughout the Commons. People will be able to go up to the table, write their dream on a piece of paper and, with the help of the volunteers, fold the paper into a crane and hang it on the string to join everybody else’s dreams.
The Ithaca Festival will run from 12 P.M. to 8 P.M. on May 31, June 1, and June 2. The “fee” to get in is a Festival button which costs $3. The money from the buttons is used to pay for performers and for next year’s Festival. If you are interested in volunteering for a couple of hours at the Ithaca Festival, the number of the Festival office is 273-3646.
May 1996
Pretentious Grammar Column
By Roric H. Tobin ’97
Bumps and Dips
As many of you have noticed while going up Route 13, there exists a bright orange sign warning of an impending BUMP. There is, however, no bump; in fact, one finds quite the opposite. The road dips significantly, causing great excitement of those with coffee in their laps. Obviously, the road crews do not know the difference between up and down.
Pronouncing Hard “g” is not Our Forte
A widely ignored aspect of the English language is pronunciation. First of all, the word forte is commonly mispronounced. It should be pronounced like the word fort, as it has its origins in French and that is how a Frenchman would pronounce it. It is still correct to pronounce this word as forté if one is referring to the relative volume of a musical piece. This is because in music, the word has its origins in Italian and that is the correct pronunciation.
Second, many people have become too soft when it comes to pronouncing the letter “g”, especially when it comes to names.
Sacagawea, who was the guide of Lewis and Clark while they searched for the head waters of the Missouri river, has had her name butchered for years, often times even misspelled because of stupidity. The “g” in her name is supposed to be a hard one as in the word gum. The reason for this pronunciation is that in her native language, there is no phoneme for a soft “g”.
Another example of pronouncing the letter “g” incorrectly is in the word Gerrymandering. Most people pronounce it with a soft “g” like the word gee. The term is named for the fifth Vice President, Elbridge Gerry, who was one of the most corrupt public officials ever elected to public office, hence the term named for him. His name was also pronounced with a hard “g,” not a soft one.