Cleveland High School - Legend Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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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.

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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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T2ve i y] THE LEDGER A TRAGEDY OF THE PRAIRIES By Katherine Sawatsky On the destitute Canadian prairies lay a blinding blanket of ice-crusted snow. October had come, ushering in cruel old man Winter with his cold breath and frosted talons. The follower of Autumn had passed, touched, and left Rosenort on the Bergthal prairie, as trans- formed and silent as if Winter ' s hand had rocked the village to sleep. Heavy gray columns of smoke curled upwards from big square chimneys set on straw-thatched roofs, and ascended to the grayish, storm-forboding sky above. Out on the crisp air tinkling sleigh bells mingled with the deep toll of the church bell, for it was Sunday morning. The shouting and laughter of the children pealed out as the villagers of this quaint Russian-German col- ony flocked to church in their Sunday best. Blue- eyed, rosy-cheeked young girls, wearing long black skirts, black jackets and black shawls, gaily trooped into the old church. S waggering swains, sporting new suits and new fur coats, cast bold glances upon the blushing damsels. On this particular morning Barbara Kernellson, her father, an elder, and Henri Adrian, Barbara ' s fiance, were traveling swiftly over the hard packed road, the jingling bells on Nell and Beauty pro- claiming the approach of the trio. When they ar- rived they found that a group of men had gathered around the church door to discuss the prophecy of the old silver-haired hermit. Ohm Youn. As Henri unhitched the horses and tied them to the posts in the stable, the elder and his daughter stayed to hear the last part of the discussion. Look here! exclaimed Petro Petrovich, the small storekeeper. Maybe you don ' t believe that when Youn says there will be a blizzard, there will be one. Has Youn lived on the prairies seventy years for nothing? I tell you, he is right! Be still, Petro. We shall see what will happen. For my part I believe Youn, for it was he who saved my crops last year, by prophecy. The last speaker, a tall, bluff fellow, turned from the group and entered the church. This confident speech did not daunt Yucob Evan- ovitch, the most handsome and cocksure young man in Rosenort. Come, Petro, he retorted. I ' m willing to wager my best horse, Callio, that there will be no blizzard today. Why, see here. All the weather signs foretell clear, cold days, and not blizzards. Youn talks, but does he know? Indeed, he knows, came the quiet voice of Henri who had returned from the hitching posts. You and your friends, Yucob, have jeered too often at Youn ' s prophecies, but you never remem- ber that most of them have come true. The toll of the last bell interrupted the argu- ment. The elder entered the church and the rest followed, full of doubts as to the future. The Sun- day routine began and went on as usual. The elder wearily droned out his dull speech on Jonah and the whale. Petro fell asleep and began to fnore loudly, much to the dismay of his wife, who vainly prodded him in his side with her hymn book. Children began to whimper and fidget as the seem- ingly endless sermon was being expounded. In fact, attention was being given to everything except the elder ' s carefully prepared oration. Kernellson had just completed the explanation of his text when a noise, like a thousand demons let loose, arose outside. Petro woke up and gazed with sleepy eyes at the windows nearest him. He rubbed his eyes and pinched his arm to see if he were awake or just dreaming. But he was not dreaming. The proph- ecied blizzard had at last descended upon the village in all its pent-up fury. The elder stopped speak- ing, for his weak voice could not be heard above the din and roar outside. Yucob paled, glanced about shiftily, and rose to go; but Henri stopped him. No, Yucob, he said. You are going to see this through, and when it is over Callio will be Petro ' s. Yucob turned red, and then white. The experi- ence of defeat was fearfully strange to him, who had always had his own way. He did not seem to comprehend the full significance of the situation. Turning away from the steady gaze of Henri ' s steel gray eyes, he sat down, afraid to do otherwise. Six dreary hours, prolonged beyond endurance, passed. No man dared venture out, for each knew the danger that waited outside the double-barred door. Everyone in that small room waited with strained anxiety for the end of the storm. But when no end came, Henri volunteered, in spite of the danger, to go to the nearest home for food. At once preparations began. Ropes that had been cast aside as useless by the elder were tied end upon end and fastened to Henri, who was then to go out and hitch the horses to the elder ' s sleigh. As he was about to open the door, Henri turned and fixed Yucob with a challenging stare. I ' ll dare you to go with me, Yucob, he called out. Yucob looked up with hatred and fear gleaming in his eyes. He dared not refuse. (Continued on Pape 46)