Annie Wright School - Shield Yearbook (Tacoma, WA)

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8 THE HYAK Our gay one, Ellen, fond, too, of society, And dances, parties all are her delight. Hilda is so demure, you don’t first see. The imp that ' s lurking iu her deep brown eyes. Our summer girl is she; and thus we end Our list, for me, you see before you here. When after this June day we separate To fight our fight in this small world of ours, We ' ll each one do her best, find the smallest niche. Where she is needed and we hope we may, As time goes by, remember this our school. Our Alma Mater dear to all of us. Her teachings not in learning ' s way alone. Hut in the example of true womanhood. Here urged upon may ever mindful be Of all the unselfish care and watchfulness By which we’ve been surrounded in these walls. Winifred Loomis. CLASS PROPHESY . Among the many singular incidents which happened dur- ing my stay at Pompeii was the encounter with the Witch of Vesuvius, of which I will tell you. While making my third ascent of Vesuvius I became so fatigued that I begged the party to leave me to rest on a rock near the base of the great mountain. After being assured by the guide that there was absolutely no danger, the others went on, and I sat for a while lazily watching them as they pain- fully made their way up the steep places, but soon I became restless and started to move around and examine the crevices in the mountain side. Several extended inward a number of feet and there were some in which a man might almost stand upright. One of these seemed especially large and lead farther in than the rest, so I decided to explore its depth. After I had gone about twenty feet I came to a sudden turn and immediately found myself in the cave of a horrible looking hag. At first I was about to scream, but instinctively I remembered the loneliness of the place and realized that a cry from me might only enfuriate the witch. I stood there motion- less from fear, unable to take my eyes from her hideous face. She gazed at me a while with her glittering snakey eyes and then asked in a low hissing voice, “What is your wish, prin- cess?” It suddenly struck me that there might even yet be some true witches left in the world, and that this one might give me the desire of my heart, that of knowing what had

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THE H YAK THE ADDRESS OF WELCOME. The long-looked for events of commencement have arrived, and this afternoon we welcome you here to our classday. Many people have said class days are stupid and uninter- esting and that they are all alike, but ours is certainly differ- ent from any other, because we are different from any other girls in the world. We cannot tell you how glad we are that there are so many interested in us, in our work and in our play, and our apprecia- tion cannot be better proven than by the great delight we take in having you with us this afternoon. There are, perhaps, some among you who have passed through this same happy event and can remember how glad and proud they were to receive their friends on this same day, and we shall, perhaps, feel much the same when, a few years hence, we look back and think of the many hard struggles that had to be encountered, and the many happy days spent before we, as a class of six, graduated from the Annie Wright Seminary. Ellen Lawler. CLASS POEM . What is so rare as a day in June, they say, And especially, when that day is our class day; That rare day seems th’ rarest, sweetest, best Of all ; when hearts are young and hearts are gay. Our class of six, so lately called a class. Because like atoms, all from different parts. We’ve slowly drawn together, slow and sure. Until this day, a perfect molecule— We stand before you. First course is Mellie; Our paper founder, editor and chief. You would not think, to gaze on her, that she— The very soul of humor is, and wit and fun. Come bubbling forth as easily from her, As from Maria, that mischief whom we see In Twelfth Night. Next is Mary. She is the one Whom from a certain fondness that is hers. We call class baby. Generous to extreme, And tender-hearted to the shy, new girls. She’s full of fun and surely always ready To enter any sport with heart and soul. Then Sara, quiet, staid, hard to befriend. But once she calls you friend, you’re that for aye.

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THE HYAK 9 become of my classmates in the Annie Wright Seminary. So, with fear and trembling I said, “O show me, thou discerner of the future, what my classmates are doing.” Immediately she beckoned me with her long, crooked finger toward the fire. Frightened though I was. I could not help obeying her. I was simply impelled forward by her will. When I- reached the fireplace I saw an immense cauldron simmering over the coals. I he witch waved her scrawny arms once, twice, thrice, over the cauldron, repeating a charm ending with the familiar refrain, ‘‘Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble.” As I stood there looking into the inky blackness of the pot. suddenly the surface was greatly agitated. Lurid blue flames arose and a black smoke surrounded the witch. A numb- ing sensation crept over my body and my head whirled. In an instant all was over and I was gazing on a beautiful broad street lined on both sides with large shade trees and broad paved walks. 1 recognized this to be one of the principal boule- vards in I’aris. There were many people promenading up and down, but one couple especially caught my eye. Something about the tall, stately form of the woman seemed familiar to me. She was talking earnestly with her companion, a tall, dark Frenchman, and as they passed I heard him say. ‘‘Yes, in if red, that is without exception your masterpiece, the car- rots are so natural.” Surely Winifred could not still be doing carrots, but then I almost forgot that “practice makes perfect.” Hut I had no further time for consideration, for the scene was swiftly changing, and I saw a comely woman in Mother Hubbard and sunbonnct coming down a quiet country lane, a dinner-pail strung over her arm. She was evidently carrying her husband his midday meal to the mill which I could hear tri biding awa in the woods. But which one of my companions could this be. It puzzled me. but not for long, as I soon heard her burst into a raphsody of song something to this effect— “Tell me not in idle numbers Senior life is but a dream, For the soil is dead that slumbers And seniors are not all they seem.” 1 his was Mel lie lluhhard and the song one of our own ver- sions of Longfellow. Again the scene changed and I saw Mary Kautz, I could not mistake her, presiding over a school of neat, bright looking young ladies. They seemed to be having a lively discussion and every once in a while I heard Mary’s shrill voice pitched above