College of the Sisters of Bethany - Ivy Leaf Yearbook (Topeka, KS)

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IIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIHIIIHIHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIHIIHIIIIIII T H E I V Y L E A F IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIHIIIIIHHIllH!!IllIIIIlIIlIIlH'Illlllllllllll Who's Who NAME OCCUPATION DESTINY Pauline Robinette Experimenting Snake chai-mer Mary Ann Fox Talking Book agent Dena Libbin Boys Heart wrecker Betty Harvey Reducing Ballet dancer Edna Hawkes Contemplating marriage Old maid Anna Walsh Poet Nurse Helen Blake Doing nothing Movie idol Mervene Ricklefs Wandering Comedienne Polly Speelman Eating Apple sauce dealer Frances Warner Quarreling Competitor in contests Hazel Lewis Swimming Life saver Virginia Cooper Flirting Clown Dora Stephen Writing to? Domestic life Dorothy Hanson Winking Prize fighter Ella Barber Toe Dancing Missionary Verne Wagner Vampire Nursing feeble minded Sarah Ewart Just being happy Mrs. ? ? 7 ? Mary Noble Oliphint Unknown Painter Christine Thomson Chaufferring Stage director Margaret Sutton Sleeping Mender of soles Good Night! Pleasant Dreams! Goodnight, and the old clock struck ten-thirty. Goodnight, Oh-o-o-o. As I turned over in my bed I wondered if those words, which I couldn't help hear- ing, really meant peace and quiet. I still had enough faith left in human nature to ho e so. Si hin for m bed r omfortabl I ll d th ' d p g g y was ve y c e, pu e up e covers an upon closing my eyes I began to rehearse in my mind the very pleasant things that had hap- pened or were to happen, such as a package from home, which, if I weren't made with alabaster lining would have kept me awake, or of the luncheon I was going to on the week-end. True enough, these much rehearsed luncheons were rarely tasted but that never dimmed the ardor with which I crawled into bed to dream about them. My thoughts grew mixedg soon I couldn't tell whether I was thinking of tennis or luncheonsg finally I dropped off to---l, Me-eow! Me-eow! Vee-ay! Vee-ay! With a start I woke from my land of dreams. I wondered, Is it a cat? Is it a ve ' tabl man? No! Su' l t! Mittens ' l cl' d d 't 'l l'k ge e iey no , our on yd qua iupe , oesn wal 1 e that and, when I was wider awake, I remembered that all the vegetable men I knew peddled their goods too late for lunch and not this long before breakfast. What then could this dreadful noise be? Dear One, the world is waiting for the sunrise. Oh! That sounds more familiar. It was only one of two things, both of these things, by the way, had long hair. As the song, for such I had decided it to be, soared higher and higher, you would have agreed with me on the altitude had you heard it, I realized its meaning to the full. It was no other than our blonde, long-haired, would-be Opera star, practicing madly to gain tone and complete volume. As to the tone I'm not so sure that she gained the summit of her ambitions but as to the volume even the pictures on the wall are able to witness that there was a great sufficiency, a very great sufficiency of that, for they with abandon, danced around on the wall with a rhythm that would have made some of the nymphs I know extremely jealous. A door opened: a loud voice roared out several very emphatic commands, the meow- ing stoppedg a door closed softly. Again I turned over in my bed. This time I was to be more successful for I was only disturbed by the rising bell, which to my mind always rings several hours too early. POLLY SPEELMAN. Page Thirty-six I HIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIHHIIlllIllIINIiillllllllllilllllllIIIIHIIllllHlllllllllllllllllllillli- 19 2 7 llllllllllllllilllllllllllllllilllilllillllllllllllilllllllllHHllIllIIlllllllilllllllillllilllilil.

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lIIIIlllllllllIllIIIIIII!IllllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIlllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIHIIIT T H E IVY L E AF llIllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIllllIIIIHIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIF Wild Geese-Martha Ostenso Martha Ostenso was born in the mountains near Bergen, Norway, in 1900, descended of an immemorial line of tillers of the soil. - When she was three years old her parents brought her to America and she lived in childhood successively in seven small towns of Minnesota and North Dakota, roving often through the countryside, believing in fairies, and looking for them in the fields and woods, and learning the strange beau- ties of the English Language which to her were words which thrilled her with their music. Later as a young girl, she moved to Winnipeg, where she attended school and the university, spending the summer teaching in the farm countries Where she con- ceived the story of Wild Geese. Martha Ostenso received as prize money 313,500 for Wild Geese. It is a tale of a Scandinavian farming community in the Northwest. Caleb Gare a malevolent ,figure of tyranny and greed dominates the story. He is able to intimidate his own household by means of a damaging secret continually held over his wife as a threat. Towards his daughter Judith, who alone refuses submission to him, his keenest cruelty is directed. Caleb cannot be characterized in the terms of human virtue or vice. He is a spirtual counterpart of the land, as harsh, as de- manding as the very soil from which he drew his existence. As Caleb read this pass- age from the bible The fool foldeth his hands together, and eateth his own flesh, his wife, Amelia, thought that this was what he was doing. What she was helping him do. Eating his own flesh here on this land. Q Amelia, Caleb's wife, is the mother of an architect farming in the neighborhood for his health. The author has twisted this son into a mechanical device used by Caleb to establish himself as undisputed master of the Gare household. Amelia was unde- niably a strong woman, with her inviolable reserve and quiet graciousness. She pro- tects this son of the man she loved even when it tortures herself. Toward the end of the book her strength is shown vividly. , Ellen, Caleb's older daughte1', is very prim, even to the point of agony. She has very much pride, and in every way stood up for her father. She tried to make her- self believe that everything he did was right. Judith, Caleb's second daughter, is vivid and terrible, and seemed the embryonic ecstacy of all life. She carries murder in her heart for her father, and once atleast attempts to practice it. She was built like the soil, upon which she was raised, solid and never bending. She held great contempt for Ellen because of her endurance. Martin was the stumbling dreamer forever silent in his dreams. Like Ellen he dared not revolt against his father mostly because of what his mother would have to bear. He and Ellen were like pea pods that had ripened to brittleness, but could not burst open. Charlie, the youngest son and favorite child of Caleb, was pampered and played against the others by Caleb. We would say he was the most natural one of the children. Lind Archer, a young school teacher, who lives in the Gare household, adds the only touch of brightness and tenderness to the grim story. She was beautiful, sweet and attractive and tried to make the life in the Gare household better for all espe- cially Judith, whom she knew and understood. She lends the touch of romance which is so needed in the novel. Mark Jordan, an architect, who comes to Aeland to work on the farm for his health, is the illegitimate son of Amelia. This is the secret which Caleb Gare holds over Amelia. But Amelia, strong to the end, manages to keep Caleb from telling him, until Caleb dies. Mark Jordan, quite lonely, centers his attraction upon the only lovely object in that part of the country, Miss Archer. Martha 0stenso's style is at times curiously awkward, but for the most part it fits the harshness of her story tempered with touches of beauty over which she does not linger too long. Wild Geese has more plot than most recent farm novels. Martha Ostenso has made a good beginning aside from her great good fortune in winning a large prize, over some eleven hundred competitors. The novel is not so remarkable as to what it accomplishes. It gives something of the impression of an unfinished statue: there is much that is unique and imposing about it, but also much that is inchoate and unformed. The Wild Geese lend the required air of mystic yearning to the impressionable heroine, who interprets the honking as something-I know not what, a magnificent seeking through solitude, an endless quest. The author always endeavors to reach the emotions by the imaginative reproduc- tion of actual experience. Painful as most of the scenes are, they distil the human- ness which is essential to tragedy. The noval bears strong traces of Scandinavian temperament and art. It is at once graciously naive and imaginatively tragic, the language is sensitive and weird, the scenes are realistic but aim at an impression of beauty or haunting terror. CHRISTINE THOMSON. Page Thirty-five IVIIIIIIIIIlIIIIIIllllIIIIIIIHIHIIHIIIIlllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIlIIIHIIlllllllllllllllllllllll 1 9 2 7 TIIIIIIIIIHIIHIIIIIIIIIlllllIlllllllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIllIIIIIllIll!IllIIIIIIHIIIIIllllllllllllllllllll

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IllIIlllIIIIIIIIllllllllIIIIIllIIIIIllIIIIIIIIlIIIHHllllllllllllllllllllll T H E I V Y L E A P IIHIIHHIIllllillIHIIIIlllIIIlHHIIIIIIIIllIU1IIIHIHIIIIHIIIUIIIIH Because of Snow It was a long white, winding road, seldom used by travellers but occasionally by the Mounted Police who drove their bedraggled horses over it on their return to Fort Sanoa. It was a terribly windy night, the pines were bending to and fro be- neath their burden of snow and the road was hardly distinguishable because of a blizzard. The moon, which usually shone brightly enough to lead people on their way into the northern parts of Canada, scarcely helped the lone 'traveller on his snow- blinded way. As the man trundled on he emitted at ever increasing intervals deep, breath-taking coughs, while, as if answer to these, the timber wolves howled. The wind blew harder and harder as the snow flakes, which grew bigger, completely covered any trace of the old road. When the man, worn out by stumbling and incessant cough- ing, realized that it would be impossible to continue his route, even if he could find his way, he fell to the earth with a groan. ' In a little Alaskan town, Jerry McTavers waited for the father, who had left three months ago on a trip to the states. Every morning she recleaned his tall boots, laid out fresh clothes, tidied herself and then climbed into his big arm chair, and with a hopeful heart waited for her Daddy. While Jerry waited, Ol' Man McTavers, as the Alaskans called him, lay face down on the snow, beating it with open palms, and as the cries of the famine-stricken wolves closed in about him he made the sign of the cross, called softly to the strong northern wind, Jerry, and died. With a loud cry the wolves set upon him, rent his garments and with muffled wails beckoned to another of the long-fanged tribe. For six more months Jerry waited for her Daddy and then she, too, joined the numberless host on its way to the unknown. POLLY SPEELMAN. Bethany Storm Swept As the sun sank slowly behind black, threatening clouds in the west one evening, it sent gleaming rays, through breaks in the gold, in all tints imaginable outlining huge, fantastic shapes and figures. These shades lingered caressingly in the sky till suddenly they were blotted out by the dark clouds that now loomed high. A deafening crash, which seemed to rend the heavens, broke the death-like stillness that had hushed the earth a few moments before. Thor was driving his thunder- chariot overhead, his hammer, Seeth, raised aloft sending dazzling, terrifying flashes of lightning across the heaven to earth. His anger seemed unappeasable. Rain began to fall in swirling, beating torrents. The trees moaned and whispered among themselves as they swayed in the wind. Then, as we knelt during the twilight service, in the chapel, the organ pealed loud over the tempest raging without, the fitful glare of lightning reflected the hues of the stained glass windows, sending weird streaks of colored light over the altar and chapel. Later that night, as I stood watching the storm, there was a lull, the wind and rain subsided, the clouds drifted away, the thunder became a mere echo in the distance and the moon shone on the pine standing, a lone sentinel, which has kept watch through many storms, before the doors of Bethany. VETA ANN McCLURE. It's not the school, said Veta, it's the principle of the thing. Page Thirty-seven III4IHHIIIIHHIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIHHIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIHIHIHIIHHIIHlIlllIIlll!lH!Ei: 1 0 2 7 IllllllHIHHIIIIIIHIIHIIIIIIIIHIHIIIIIHHHHIHIHIIIHIIIIIHIIHIIIIHHlIHHlHHllI4IH!IH