Cleveland High School - Legend Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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Twenty-two THE LEDGER The Song of the Willow Branches By Siegfried Rosen, S. P. (First Prize Foein) Wearied heads and wistful boughs, Dipping in the dreamy trail ; Bowing branches, bending limbs, Drooping in a drowsy wail; Nodding, nursing, listening, still ; Bleeding in a broken plea. Sobs the silvery Willow Tree. Blasted blossoms, weighted leaves. Heavy in the deadened air; Gre ish twigs and lazy stalks, Leaning in a lifeless stare; Lost in soothing slumber soft. Sunken in Eternity, Sleeps the weeping Willow Tree. Trickling waters, silken streams; Gliding, gleaming, lithe and low, Loitering through a listless lane. Lisping, stirring, leisured flow; Rippling by the fluttered boughs; Crooned and lulled in crowded glee, Nods the breathing Willow Tree. Wafted sighs and wilted leaves, Drifting on the fitful floss; Whitened lily, languid twig, Drooping over dolorous moss ; Blooming buds and beryl growth. Touching, twining branches, free. Float beneath the Willow Tree.

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THE LEDGER [Tivenly- ' ine THE TWO SUITS By pRANCliS ROSKNFELD I must go, I really can ' t stay away, T must, I must, I must go, I just have to go. These were the thoughts that were racing through Allan Briggs ' head as he sat absently gazing at the telephone whose receiver he had just hung up. This was Friday night and he had had a call from the cleaners, informing him that because of an error, his tuxedo could not be finished until Mon- day morning. Alice ' s party was coming off to- morrow night ; he had accepted her invitation as guest of honor; and it was impossible for him to back out now, without a minute ' s notice to Alice. After sitting and brooding for about five minutes he got up, walked to his closet, examined all his suits, but decided that none would fit the occasion. He listlessly walked about awhile and then decided to walk over to his chum ' s house — only to find that Bob was not in. But his mother was there and as Allan and Mrs. Neilan were very good friends he sat down to talk to her, and before very long he found himself pouring out his trouble. After hearing the story Mrs. Neilan sat per- plexed for a moment and then said, Why couldn ' t you wear your brother ' s suit, Allan? I never thought of that, answered he; by George, that ' s just what I ' ll do. With this thought in mind he hurried home and tried on Phil ' s suit and though it was not a perfect fit, it was passable. Saturday night finally came. Allan donned Phil ' s suit, and left for the party without a word to any one. About five minutes later Phil rushed into the house, only stopping long enough to tell his mother that he was going to dress and go to that formal dance he was invited to. He went to his room to get his suit, but to his surprise it was not to be found. After searching awhile he called for his mother ' s assi stance, and they both looked, but to no avail. Then Phil said, Mother, do you think Allan ' s would do ' Oh! exclaimed Mrs. Briggs, I sent Allan ' s suit to the cleaners and it has not been returned yet ; Allan must have worn yours, for he went to Alice ' s party. Phil on hearing this immediately left the house, took his car, and hurried to Alice ' s home. He went into the house and asked to speak to Allan. Have you got m ' suit on? Phil asked. Yes, answered Allan. Well, I ' m sorry, old man, but the suit will have to come off. But, Phil, I can ' t give it to you now. I must see this thing through. Can ' t you see how impos- sible this is? I ' m sorry, but I must have my suit. All right, then ; I ' ll go and excuse myself. Allan entered the room and walked over to Alice to offer an apology as he must leave at once. Un- fortunately, there was a crowd of boys and girls around her, but he had to do it and so he mustered up enough courage, walked up to the crowd and started to talk. Just then he felt someone shaking him ; he opened his eyes and found his mother at his bedside telling him that it was already eight o ' clock. Thank goodness, it was only a dream, mur- mured Allan. Autumn Leaves By Kenneth Collins, S. P. Little gorgeous autumn flowers, Like spun gold ; Falling down in brilliant showers, Wealth untold. Slowly swinging, quickly leaping, Down you go. Very soon now you ' ll be sleeping ' Neath the snow.

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THE LEDGER {Twenty-three Portland By LUCILE DODSON, S. P. From wiiidbluwii heights above the noisy din And feverish, pulsing temper of her streets Where Life is surging billows, throbs and beats, I watch soft-fingered night come stealing in To heal with velvet touch the wounds of day. Lights twinkle, fade, and glimmer eerily — Like dusky stars lost in a midnight sea. Wan lights that glow, and glowing, die away. A lo ely, glittering creature, steeped in pride, Breaker of dreams and lavish giver of gifts. Who gently stoops to one and gently lifts. Breaking another to be cast aside; Alluring, mystic, holding in her hand The best and worst in life which men demand. Shadows By Fave Howe, S. P. Like flick ' ring shadows that so harshly fall In wa ' ring, pointed tongues of ebon black. That disappear and come as quickly back To dance in glee upon the dead-white wall, Is measuring, weighing life, whose great blank page Reflects, like surface of a shallow pool, The actions of a sage, the antics of a fool, Existing on this earth from age to age. But unlike shifting shadows, life ' s dark deeds Are graven in black words upon the wall, That stand, unchanging through the countless )ears, Though sinners endlessly tell strands of beads. The deed is done, whatever may befall ; The words unworn, though washed by showers of tears. I To a Wood Lily By Doris Wilson, S. P. In darkest wood with tallest trees With one gold spot of sunlight on your face, What kind of woodland flower are you Among these ferns of hazy pale green lace? ' our cold white face, with pale blue veins, Areaching toward that bit of blue up there; What ancient princess, say, art thou Turned by a witch into a flower so rare? 1 fa!n would pluck you, blossom fair, But if I did you ' d wither and would fade, I ' ll leave you in your spot of sun So vou may brighten this dark wooded glade. Worshippers By Siegfried Rosen, S. P. Deep through the stifled melancholy air Of evening, sobered by the death of light. There comes the sound of wearied souls in praver And echoes of the answering voice of Night. While droning darkness droops its heavy pall About the stilled symbolic shrine of God, The p ' eadings of the kneeling mourners fall Lfpon the ears of those who passing plod. And as I pass, I bow my head in awe Of both the Master and my fellow man, And drop a tear before the spirit ' s law. For kindred souls make all the world one clan. So thus I stand before the open door. Outside, a silent worshipper the more. I F By Doris Wilson, S. P. ( A pologies tcj Kif ling) If you can bob your hair, when all about you. Girls are growing their ' s and giving you laugh ; If when skirts are worn down to the ankles You can wear your ' s around your calf; If you can paint and never spoil the picture; If you can talk and never say a thing; If you can do all this and never grumble, You ' ll be some flapper soon, old thing. If you can dream, and not wake up till noontide; the If you can make your thoughts all land the game; If you can talk to reform maniacs And make those witty words all have an aim ; If you can bear to hear the slang you ' ve spoken. Used by fools who wish to shine ; If you can do all this and never grumble, You ' ll be a flapper too, some time.