Cleveland High School - Legend Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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Eighteen] THE LEDGER icy. It stung me. It froze my blood. I recoiled. She laughed sardonically. ' You will swear that you will never tell what you have seen until you lie on your deathbed, ' she commanded. My resistance was futile; I made the vow. Then she took a pace backward, two steps; she vanished. Could I but have had egress from this effete world at that moment! The selfish mob still left might have been better with my ef- facement. I fell in a dead faint. I woke an hour later. The doctor was standing over me. ' She left us several hours ago, ' he said, point- ing to the still, white form upon the bed. Since then I have drifted over the world. Through all my preregrinations people have put me in asylums! They have treatedme in some places as if I were a child or a dotterel, in others as if I were a beast. I was a neophyte to the belief of the preternatural, a fanatic proselytizing to elude my own haunting fears. But always following me was that curse of the dead, the beautiful Marietta. I have been a nonentity. I have lived a living death. I have been afraid of my own shadow. I have paid ; yes, I have paid. The speech trailed off and died. The speaker was silent. Suddenly a shriek rent the air. A form fell, sprawled upon the veranda. A small red pool formed around the head. Women grew hysterical. The sun sank lower in the West. It formed a golden path down the bay. The sky changed swiftly from gold to red, from red to purple, from purple to black. The sun sank behind the thin ribbon of land, far, far down upon the water. The huddled heap stirred. The lips quivered. A man bent over the body and put his ear close to the moving lips. 1 have wooed that which is most repugnant to me, he heard. I have paid, the lips said. I have paid. May the Lord erase the blot from off my soul. The limp body of the story teller lay upon a clean white bed of the traveler ' s fashionable hotel. The house detective had cleared the room and halls of the curious, excitement-seeking guests. The dead man cautiously opened one eye and peered around the room. Suddenly he sat up and wiped a smear of red printer ' s ink from his jaw. I ' ll be darned, he said, if I ' ll tell that story again until the management raises my wages. I ' ll go back to Madrid first, where I can pull a better hoax. This is too mussy, and besides it ' s worth more than five dollars to be a dead man and keep a straight face. Incense By Faye Howe, S. P. When burning incense gently wreaths and curls. And floats in tattered banners in the air. And softly sways in tantalizing swirls. That slowly fade, as I, enchanted, stare; Then wondering thoughts disturb a wayward mind, For life is like the incense, burning slow. In spiraled circles climbing upward, twined, Then disappearing, where, I do not know. Frail vapor like the ghosts of roses dead. It vanishes, but leaves a sweet perfume, And when the vapor of our lives has sped, It, too, leaves echoes in the darkened room. Like silv ' ry cobweb wisps that never cease To leave behind them all-enveloping peace.

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THE LEDGER [Seventeen THE DEAD MAN WITH THE STRAIGHT FACE Bv Arden Paxgborn I am prematurely aged. The speaker paused and bowed his head. The slanting ra s of the setting sun beamed down upon the long hotel veranda. The gray hair of the story teller caught and held the brilliant golden particles of light. A halo of rufous light surrounded his head, making a crown, recherche and regal. I have paid, he breathed. His face lifted. The sun bathed it with its molten gold. Yes, I have paid, he repeated. For years I have lived with a scorching pain, a tortur- ing dread tearing at my very being. It has searched my soul ; it has borne me with it down to the grave. I am to die. I know it; I can feel it creeping over me — the chill of death. See, he stood upon his feet and pointed over the railing, that little golden hair across the bay. There I spent the happiest and the unhappiest moments of my life. The listeners looked. Far down on the waters a jagged outline reared itself above the level of the bay. The setting sun had also touched this spot with its transparent carmine pigment. A line of red and golden hues — there had been the fulfilling of great promises of great futures, the aspirations of great men, or their breaking; there had been the filling of many a lover ' s cup of joy, of happiness, or of sorrow. The group turned. The man was huddled in his chair. His face was low. They thought that he had fallen asleep, but he, sensing their renewed at- tention, roused himself and spoke in a hollow voice. I will tell you my story, he said. You may not believe. You may be skeptical and laugh at me; nevertheless, I will tell. The time has come. I was just a lad, only eighteen. You will un- derstand. I was madly in love. Marietta, ah! she was beautiful. I loved her as I loved the sun, the moon, the stars; yes, I loved her. She was my mind, my soul, my body. But there was another. Pietro Becucci loved her too. She loved us both. I knew she would choose between us. The whole village knew it. We could do nothing but wait. She told us one day that, if we would give her two months, she would decide. We agreed. The time dragged on. The suspense was unbearable to my young blood. I began to feel my hold slipping. I knew her affections were leaning toward Pietro. I could not bear to see her go to him. The crisis came at last. The night was hot. I could not sleep; I could not lie still. I arose from m - bed and started for a stroll in the moonlight. It was beautiful, the moon, the trees, the world. It filled my heart with music, my step with elasticity. I wandered out past the sleeping village. I fol- lowed the stream flowing under the arched bridge. . . . Satan must have guided the steps of my nocturnal meandering. . . . The man paused once more and drew his hand slowly over his forehead as if to wipe away the clouds that were enveloping and obscuring his brain. He crouched down in his seat again after this vain gesture and continued. I came upon them. It was under a large grape bower that they stood. I saw; they did not. I waited. My emotions bubbled up to the overflow- ing. I was angry; I was jealous. I laid myself down in the tall grass and watched. Pietro said something. Marietta nodded. He took her in his arms; he held her close; he kissed her. It was insufferable. That I had lost Marietta was obvious. However, the seeds of cowardice had been planted within me. The inquietude of my mind drove me to iniquitous, insensate furv. I saw the way out. On his way home that night Pietro was acci- dentally killed by the falling of a huge branch. By the ephod of my father, I knew not what I did! The stigma of my miserable deed, so surrepti- tiously accomplished, did not trouble me then. Marietta mourned for a little while, but in the end I won. She accepted me, and we were mar- ried. I almost forgot my old rival. Seven happy days passed ; then suddenly Mari- etta became ill. Nothing that I could do would cure her. Oh ! that my mind might have had prescience! Every miserable minute presaged tor- ture in the future. The deed I had perpetrated began to prey upon my mind, and there were times when I thought my brain would snap and leave me a hopeless maniac. It didn ' t; I only wish it had. I watched day and night at her bedside. Mv pa. ion did not abate. I did not eat or sleep. I stayed with her continually. She wasted awav. It was after one particularly strenuous day. Never can I forget those few moments of unutter- able horror — mental pain and physical terror. I must have fallen asleep from sheer fatigue, for I awoke with a start. Marietta was standing beside the bed. I hastily remonstrated and started to rush to her side. I found that I could not touch her. A strange, cold, chilh ' force vibrated around her evanescent form. 1 could not penetrate it. Then it came to me. She was no longer mortal. I was horrified. Then she spoke. ' ' ou killed m - lover, ' she accused, ' ' ' ou will live in an agony of untold fears for the rest of our life. ' Her breath was charged with a current, cold,

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THE LEDGER { Nineteen DREAM-GIFTS By Siegfried Rosen, S. P. I overheard the fairies tell The secret of the Dreams, And now I know where visions dwell And why a vision gleams. From out the natural vorId they take The things that strike man ' s eye When man and soul and fancy make A kingdom of a sky. The golden leaves that whirl in glee Along the tree-lined street, And dance and swirl and flit and flee On light, gay, fairy feet. Are swept about before a broom By magic made — unseen. That makes dropt leaves with splendor bloom- Fit gems for any queen. Next come the hidden sylvan pools, The mirrors of life lost, That radiate the perfect jewels Of forest, still or tossed. Like airy glass (so fine and pure It seems as if ' twere spun). Lusters at each color ' s lure Till colors tinge in one. Then come the flowers and the trees, The glamour of the sea, The song of birds, the hum of bees, The world of Nature free. These things the sprites so lightly blend With charm and song and dance Into the gift they later send To men of inner glance. Over the whole they throw a haze, A mist, half-gray, half-clear. That makes the viewer see the maze As parts far off, and near. And a mysterious melody. As minstrels may have sought To lull and melt some listless lea. Is in this mixture wrought. They sprinkle perfume o ' er the mass To make it haunt the mind, A sweet soft myrrh that seems to pass And steal and curl and wind. And soon the gift is never seen. Nor where by fairies made; But it is hidden whole and green In man where it has strayed. I overheard the fairies tell The secret of the Dreams; And now I know where visions dwell And why a vision gleams. The Lights of the City By Faye Howe, S. P. The lights of the city glimmer Through the veil of night. Growing bright, then dimmer. The lights of the city glimmer. Like shaken opals shimmer. Growing dim, then bright. The lights of the city glimmer Through the veil of night.