Mechanic Arts High School - M Yearbook (St Paul, MN)

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UWM HIS MAN By ELMER BAEKER, '31 The hard, bitter Alaskan wind howled desolately as it drifted the falling snow into huge white billows and fantastic figures. The monstrous breakers tried vainly to smash the granite shores of Bristol Bay. The colossal towers of rock were transformed into pinnacles of ice in the intense cold. All life had retreated before the frigid fury of the great North. Even the inanimate objects seemed to have hidden away until only the naked trees, crackling and tossing under the power of the gale, and the expansive stretches of wind-blown snow, appeared in the stretches of the landscape. In. the lee of a cliff, where the tempest was least severe, a column of smoke rose doubtfully to a certain height until the current of the storm caught it and hurled it away. Smoke was the symbol of human life, the factor that betrayed the presence of man in this God-forsaken, tempestuous land. Inside a cabin were two men. One lay on a rude bunk, his eyes listlessly fixed on the ceiling. The fire blazing through the cracks in the sheet-iron stove flickered on his face, giving a saffron hue to his haggard countenance. Though languid and dying. he was undoubtedly a man of the North, lean, hard. and bronzed. The other sat taking deep lungfuls of a black British cigar and gazing with troubled thought into the clouds of smoke. A single tallow candle cast its very uncertain light, adding an air of grotesque simplicity. Finally, the silence was broken. Why did you ever come to this God-forsaken country? The man on the bunk raised his head. His eyes became hard as he met the stranger's gaze: then he again relaxed. I love this country, he said. Nature is my God, the wildnerness is my temple. The winter Winds' howl comforts me. The raging elements make me feel the littleness of humanity. The great polar stars help me to forget, Forget what? queried the stranger. Forget what! he cried. Forget what I can never forget. I killed him, the rat, and I wish he were alive so that I could kill him again! With that his madness passed and he fell back, exhausted, on his pillow. Finally, he spoke again. I was young and happy. I was barely a man when my father died. Then he came. He was a drunkard, a fool. He beat my mother. He broke up the family. He let us starve while he saturated himself with liquor. He sent my mother to the grave and he buried her in a plank box. He made my little brother a cripple. I killed him. I broke his skull with an ax. They sent me to jail. They made me a murderer for killing a dog. They sentenced me to the gallows. They were going to hang me! he screamed. Hang me! Damn them! But I got away. I killed two of them. I lay in hiding for a week, crawling through the meshes of the human drag-net they laid' for the boy mur- derer. They called me a fiend, a maniac, a menace to society. Finally I came here to live, or rather to suffer. I cursed humanity. I fought nature without tools and with an arm that the king's lead had rendered useless. I'm dying now. If you ever see brother Joe, let him know. Fare- well, stranger. He died. The stranger relit his cigarvand puffed furiously for a while: then he slowly took out a report blank of the Northwest Mounted Police. Page Fifteen

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THE SW almost to the lake when Mary Jane declared that she was tired and seated herself under a huge elm. Well, Mary Jane. I thought you were the little girl who just adored the wilds and could walk miles and miles without tiring, teased Jack, sitting down near her. I am, and I can, retorted Mary Jane, but, Jack, I stopped because I wanted to talk to you. Yes? queried Jack in a puzzled tone. UWell, then, shoot. Jack, began Mary Jane hesitatingly, I admire you Cyes, I know you should never Hatter a boyD and I like you. I should like to know you better. I wish we two could be good friends, good pals. Howiabout it? 'iWhy, Mary Jane! gasped Jack. Yes, I knowt I sound bold, unusual. But honestly, I think we'd gain by each other's friendship. I-I-. You little honey, said Jack, as a broad grin spread over his face. I think I see what you are driving at. I know you're not chasing me-you're too direct for that. You've always been a fine, intelligent girl, and because I admire you, too, Mary Jane, I think I know how to take your proposition. You look mighty sweet in that pink outfit. I wonder why I didn't get this idea myself. My Love By MIRIAM LIGHTER, '31 Dancing like a fairy seems The only lady of my dreams, I loved her from the very start. She was the lady of my heart, And every time I look at her, I love her more, I do aver. The sweetest voice my love possesses, In shining velvets always dresses, She is the fairest of the fair, With smiling eyes and flowing hair. A mouth that wears a smile most sweet, With kindly words she'll ever greet, She'll laugh and prance about all day, She is the gayest of the gay. Her I shall always idolize, And win I must this goodly prize. L'Envoi I know you think this all cliche, Because you've heard some others say The very things I now portray: But lovers always talk this way. Speed By HARRY HAMMYNDE COTTINGHAM, '31 Give me a launch with throttle wide, To skim across the surf, Give me a horse with lengthy stride To pace across the turf. Give me a plane with clean cut heels To dart across the sky. Give me a motor with spinning wheels- It is for speed I cry! Page Fourteen

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THE MY FIRST PARTY By ELAINE DosEN We're going to have a party, And surely hope you'll come, For if you don't, the rest of us, XVon't have a bit of fun. Friday, October 28, at 7 o'clock. This invitation had come a week before, printed on a Halloween pumpkin. As I sat in the classroom the afternoon of the party, my mind was every- where but on the reader I held before me: for I was going to my first party with my first beau and there were really serious questions to decide. My thoughts were racing along. 'AI-Iow would it be to sit near the lamp reading a book when he comes, then he won't even suspect that I am waiting for him and I would look sort of dignified. If only I could wear glasses because they certainly would add an air of intelligencef No, maybe it would be better to sit at the piano playing 'Robin's I,ullaby': then he would think I'm a musician and that would be something. My mother could answer the door and he would hear the sweet strains of my playing: but then, I don't know the second page of that piece so very well and it would be just my luck to have him arrive as I was stumbling through to the end of the piece and then I wouldn't make an impression on him. That night at dinner, I wasn't hungry and my mother didn't insist that I drink my milk. I had finally come to the conclusion that I would not be ready when Harold called for me: I thought that by not being ready, I would make quite an impression on him. Just as we finished dinner, the doorbell rang. I ran to answer it and to my surprise, there stood Harold, exactly forty-five minutes early: I gasped and stared at him: then I remembered my old dress and uncombed hair.- Come in and sit down, I managed to say, and then I dashed madly up the stairs, skipping two or three at a time for-Harold had come! I dressed hurriedly, and just as I started out of my room, I noticed my earrings on my doll trunk. They had been given to me to wear when we played house. I put them on: they would add the final touch for they were long and dangly and set with brilliant stones!-perhaps I-Iarold would think them diamonds. As I came down the steps into the living room, my mother eyed me suspiciously and then said, You can't wear those earrings tonight, Elaine: they're not really appropriate. Before she said more, I pulled off the priceless jewels and hurried for the door, feeling properly squelched. Anyway we arrived at the party at 6:40 by no means the first guests. We had a lovely time, and the evening passed much too quickly. We stayed until the kind hostess thoughtfully brought our coats down to the living room: and only then did we decide it was time to go home. I wish I could ever have another thrill as wonderful as my first party gave me. Dilemma my CARYL BOTHE I would be free of loving hands That bind me home: I would be free of loving words 'AYou must not roam. I would be free of loving ties, Free as the wild dove, But I should perish if I were Ever free of love. Page Sixteen