Cleveland High School - Legend Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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- BERBER. HERITAGE George Pohl Love of a vessel cleavint; The restless sea ; From my father and his father It came to me. The April sun had kissed the sea in the Vest, bathing those cold waters in a lurid, fused glow. Each tinted wave gleamed phosphorescent as it flowed toward the barren shores, coaxing wisps of seaweed that hung back, reluctantly, in its wake. Far, far away to the West and South lay the peaceful land of the Britons, nestling in its downy bed of heather, and Germany and Normandy clothed gloriously in their first spring lilies. Knute sat on an abondoned dory on the rocky coast and dreamed. The rising tide reached for that scarred and rotting veteran of the fishing grounds, but fell back chagrined. The dory was too completely imbedded in the sand to yield im- pulsively to the tide which had once ruthlessly tossed it about. Somewhere on that vast compelling waste roamed his father over the grave of his father in the be- loved schooner. Vixen. What strange lands and strange people he would see. He would sail into their ports and bring home their treasures but enmeshed closest to his father ' s heart lay that little village on the coast where even the moss beneath one ' s feet was nourished with fish-oil. Knute, too, loved that village on the rocky coast because there lived his mother and little Borghild. His boyhood days in the village brought remembrances that were most dear to his heart, ' et a memory of Roald, his childhood playmate, passed before him. That summer day on a raft, floating out to sea. Dark- ness — and the tide, that mocking, insatiable tide! And Roald never came back! An inward feeling of fear held him for the moment, but his place was on the Vixen. Knute would sail with his father this same spring. It had been promised him. His blood surged in restless anticipation. His soul, sea-born, longed for the wastes. Its infinite sweep and fearful depths Fear of the slow fog rolling In from the sea; From my mother and her mother. It came to me. — Borghild Lundherg Lee. intoxicated him and lured him, blindly. Each sea- carved shell echoed its grandeur to him. Then one day the Vixen lay anchored in the sheltered cove before the village, gracefully rising and sinking as the swells rolled rhythmically be- neath her keel. How strong and shapely, and de- fiant she looked and how neatly trimmed her canvas lay on the yards. On her bows were carved the proud name she bore. Soon he would tread her sacred decks; soon he would clamber in her shrouds and square her sails! The days burned down to nights ; and the nights gave birth to days that surpassed the loveliness of their mother. During those days Knute toiled ceaselessly to fit his father ' s ship for the summer voyage. There was much to be done. In those lands men had no leisure for idleness and dissipa- tion ; their women no time for shallow thoughts and petty pleasures. Children of the stern sea they were born and so they died, unafraid and confident. One night the Vixen slipped out with the tide. Knute labored in the days that followed, too dili- gently to surrender his few moments to idle memo- ries and vain regrets. Still at night in his rude bunk two pictures floated constantly in his mind. How clearly he recalled his mother ' s farewell and her lingering embrace. And little Borghild, his sweetheart, — her smiling reproof and caution, and that hurried stolen kiss were eternally burned and seared on his brain. How pretty she was that day in her blue, calico dress and square bonnet from which her flaxen hair crept to frame those eyes, deep blue as the midnight sky in the Scandinavian winter. The crew of the Vixen worked intermit- tently from dawn to sunset with the tangled nets, and ropes, and baited lines and barbarous hooks. All must be ready and the dories equipped properly. (Continued on Page 62) Page 21

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= EEPSBEf he tiiiiu ' d it off ami tuned in the radio. In tlie middle of an excitintj lecture on The Modern South ' ' Pat appeared and they departed. Hob heard the door slam and the sound of an automobile starting; off. He came into the room and, having turned off the radio, sank into a chair and breathed a sij h of relief. Thank heavens, she ' s one, he said. After meditating a moment he said aloud, 1 ain ' t t;onna stay home all alone. Whereupon he got up and went up stairs. Presently he descended dressed for the party to which he was to have taken Alice. He went out and slammed the door behind him. When he reached the hall, he was asked for his name. What name? he mumbled. Each person is asked to mt under a false name until unmasking time, was the reph . Call me ' West ' , he replied. I might say here that he was dressed as a cow- boy and looked well in his costume. He was introduced to the other masked people as West and then given a number to match for his partner for the first dance. As he neared the end of the hall he heard something drop to the floor. Looking down he saw a dainty white lace fan. He picked it up and handed it to its owner, who smiled and winked at him. He stood gazing at the vision in front of him. A charming young maiden in a much befrilled colonial costume and a large poke bonnet met bis gaze. He collected his wits and asked, May I see your number? It was twenty-one, the same as his. He pocketed the number and sat down. What may I call you? he asked. Miss, Miss — Miss Janice, she hesitated. And yours? she asked. West, he replied. The music started and they danced away. Never in all his life had Bob danced so well. Never in all his life had he danced with anyone who danced so well. They seemed to glide along. The music ended all too quickly. May I have the next dance? he whispered, almost afraid to speak. Sure, she answered and away they went again. And the ncM ? lie ask -d hen they had fin- ished that one. Taken, she re|)lii-d and moved away. He did not see her again until the next t(j the last dance. After the last dance the urnnasking would take place. When the music stopped, he stepped up to her and asked, May I have this one? She turned, and with a bewitching smile, an- swered, Let ' s sit out this one. They went to the balcony and sat down. I think Janice is a beautiful name, he said. Really, she laughed. Td like to know you, he added. And I, you, she replied. May I take you home? he asked. Not tonight, was the answer. The gong sounded for all the party to stand still in the hall. They stood up and beamed at each other. Another gong ; off came the masks with many a gasp and a giggle. Bob stood rooted to the spot. So did Miss Janice. Bob! she screamed. Pat ! he choked. Silence reigned again for a minute, then Pat ' s face fell ; she sat down. Aw gee — she muttered. Gos h, said Bob. Pai e 20

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LECSBER, CAREERS TO MEND OsA Lautner Prize Essay Dickens may liave had his slums iind Thureau his woodlands, hut 1 — I insist upon a double-walled room in the top story of the Woolworth building. Why? My reasons are manifold. Many are the time 1 have fjroaned, Oh, if 1 were only a Bee- thoven, or words to that effect. He was the fellow who could compose music with a bloody war ra int; in the street below. That was genius indeed. But when it comes to writing an English composition I find that genius was all right. Concentrate! they say. So one night 1 came home and concentrated. I concentrated from 3 ' til 6 for an idea to write about. Vigorously I washed dishes and determinedly I groped for an Idea — in vain? No sir, I got one. Well, I settled down to be another Booth Tarkington. I scrib- bled intently for about five minutes when — How do you spell magic? M-a-g-i-c, I muttered. Where was I? Oh yes. And the clock tick-tocked. Say, I remarked, don ' t you think that was a fine pep assembly we had today? It being a weighty question it was thoroughly discussed. The clock kept on ticking. Half an hour later I grasped m pencil with a make-a-touchdo M)-or-die air. What came next? Let me see — was that the right word? Oh dear, I must get some typing paper tomorrow. Pie Eater Takes Pie Baker ' s Offer. What ' s that! Isn ' t that queer? Still the clock tick-tocked. I regrasped my pencil. Ah ! The hero must prove his metal — he must — must — What should he do? I have it! He shall — President C(jolidge came to tlie metropolis to interpret the business side of — With an exclamation of despair I pushed my paper aside. Shucks. H. B. W. had enough com- petition. What was happening to Orphan Annie? The clock kept persistently on — tick, tock. Well, after everyone had gone to bed I finally finished m ' story. Nine hours to write three pages. Something had to be done. Therefore, my demand for an isolated habitation. I gazed at the clock and found that a forbidding twelve held full sway. A feeling of horror swept over me. It was after nine — curfew — and I was still out — out of bed. But the funny part was the clock didn ' t say a thing — it just kept on ticking. SERENADE Lucille Dodson Tenderly borne on the night wind ' s wings Gently and slow, gently and slow, Under the moon where the nightingale sings Softly and low. Swing on the tide in your ship of dreams. Capture a cloud for a sail and sweep Out in the blue where the star-foam creams And sleep, my precious one, sleep. Rock with the waves on a sea of dew. Gently and slow, gently and slow, Lost where the breath of the rose drifts through Softly and low. Down the lanes of the jeweled sky Scattering spray o ' er the dusky deep Glide with the winds where the dreamlands lie And sleep, my precious one, sleep. Paffe 22