Commerce High School - Ledger Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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Sixte THE LEDGER DEVIL ' S PIE Laurette Wheeler Patricia Murphy was often referred to as Bid ' s onery rascal or the devil ' s own partner. Her brilliant red hair was braided in two wiry braids which stuck out on both sides of her head. Her eyes were as green as cat ' s — but no one dared to tell her so. Her face was sprinkled with a mass of large healthy brown freckles. Her kid brother Bud explained their origin to her by saying the cow spit bran in her face when she was feeding her. Well — he just had to retreat to some place of secrecy to avoid the violence of her genuine Irish temper. She was tall and strong. It was a pleasure to see her walking down the street, for her long strides and her boyish figure always attracted attention. She could put any boy in the shade in hookin ' mel- lons, playing mibs, and fist-fighting. Any one that stirred her to anger would usually have to go around the next few days — or months as it might be — with a nose flattened to look like the mug of a bull dog, or else he was wearing a shiner that gave one side of his face a black and bluish tint. The only time she ever played house with the girls was when she could be the robber, villain, or detective. They, liking the novelty of the idea at first, would consent to this, but she had them so uneasy all the time she played that they would re- treat to some hidden corner to play in peace. She was swinging listlessly down the street whistling the tune of Pop Goes the Weasel, when her attention was drawn to a group of ladies who were talking excitedly. They were grouped around widow Mary Shannon, trying to comfort her over the loss of her chickens which had been mysteriously stolen the night before. With her head buried in her apron, she sobbed, Thoey were my loif, my hope, my only support till I ' d join moie ole man Mike in the other woirld he ' s in. Whether the ol ' divils got him or whether he ' s a wearin ' a haloe an ' a wearin ' green petticoats tucked up in a yaller girdle an ' sittin ' by ol ' Saint Patrick, I ' ll follow him. Oh! my chickens, curse the luck of this ol ' widow. Pat slipped unnoticed to Mary Shannon ' s chicken yard. Her keen eyes scrutinized the muddy, dirty pen. She gave an exclamation under her breath as she noticed a footprint near the gate. It was not made by the widow ' s shoe because the print was of a man ' s shoe. Upon examining the print more closely she observed that on the heel of the shoe was a cross made of shod nails. Silas Jackson, she breathed. There wasn ' t a person in the little town who didn ' t know that print. It belonged to an old superstitious negro that lived on the outskirts of the town. He always wore a cross on his heel, because it would render his footprints invisible to the devil; consequently the demon could not follow him. This certain coon had a peculiar yet common talent, which was raising chickens. No one ever had the success he had. To explain my statement further, I mean raising chickens from other people ' s yards. Patricia stole noiselessly down the street, out of hearing distance. Producing a willow whistle from her pocket, she blew it shrilly. In the course of a few seconds there were boys coming from every direction. When they were grouped around her, she announced, Gentlemen of the G. O. of D. D. of H. V. we will proceed to navigate to our place of meeting, in short, our rendezvous, to discuss an im- portant question. A few minutes later she was laying before them her plan of action, and also giving orders right and left. Pete, you bring your last winter ' s suit of red flannel underwear. Aw! Quit making excuses. Your old grandma won ' t care. Say, if you don ' t cut it out you ' ll be kicked out of this club. Say, Dan, I ' ll give you a dime and you go the store and get some red calico. Hmm! Let ' s see. Your sis is a pretty good girl ; you have her make a cap with stuffed horns. Be sure to make her keep mum, now ! Mike, you go get Kate O ' Leary ' s jump rope and you can whittle a good dart. I think that will make a good tail. Now — I guess we have every- thing but the paints. I ' ll furnish those. That evening all the things were all in shape. Pat took them and crept quietlv to her room. She soon arrayed herself in her devil costume. Then with several artistic touches with her paint brush, she made her face a fiery red, and with her black arched eyebrows, mustache, and goatee, she made a fine likeness of Satan himself. As night crept uoon the earth, the bovs stole up to old Silas ' house. They hid in ambush while our young devil neared the house. Sniff! Sniff! Chicken pie. ' Her nostrils quivered ; her mouth watered for the fine baked chicken between two layers of rich flaky pie crust. She pushed the door open and entered. Old colored Silas was sitting bv the stove. He jumped when he heard her step. His eyes grew wild; cold beads of perspiration covered his shaggy brow; he fell to his knees, sobbing out a jumble of prayers, crys for help, and entreaties. The devil looked fiercely at him and spoke in an authoritative tone, I, the king of Hades, I, the ruling hand of the damned, I, the prince of dark- ness, I, the devil of hell, have come to claim your (Continued on Page 52)

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THE LEDGER [Fifle MIKE CASALENO Vkrda Jappert The old proverb, Happiness must be earned, rings true in the case of every contented and happy person. People will endure the hardest sort of physical toil and at the end be happy; so in the case of Mike Casaleno. When he was a little boy about eight years old, he was brought before a judge on the charge of stealing a saw from a hardware store. It wasn ' t an expensive one, just an ordinary common wood- chuck. What is your name? began the judge. Mike Casaleno. Where do you live? In the slums at 210. Do you live with your parents? I haven ' t got any. Whom do you stay with? My Uncle. Do you go to school? No! Wh • did vou steal that saw; was it for vour Uncle? No! I wanted the saw. You wanted the saw, and what for? I liked it. It was so shiny and nice, I thought it would be lots of fun sawing wood with it. Don ' t you know that it is wrong to steal? The boy was silent. The judge, being impressed with the fact that the boy didn ' t know the difference between right and wrong, delivered a long lecture about stealing. When he had finished, he announced that Mike was to go to school, and that the saw would be given back to the hardware man. Mike began to crv. I suppose the advantage of free education doesn ' t appeal to you, the judge flung at the little, ragged, dirty- faced boy. Oh! Sir! It ' s not that, but that I should lose the only plaything I ever had. The sobbing had grown into a loud cry. Well, Mike, the judge finally said, you can keep the saw, and I ' ll pay the hardware man for it, on the condition that you promise never to steal anything else. I promise. At that the judge reached over his desk and shook hands with the little boy. Mike Casaleno was sent to school and after go- ing there for two months, he decided that he didn ' t mind school so much after all. At the end of a year he loved to go to school and studv. Of course he had not forgotten the saw. Everv night after school he would saw the wood for the next day ' s use. One night after he had sawed enough wi)od to fill the wood bo.x, he laid the saw in his lap. As he handled it and bended it, he observed that by hitting it with a stick there was a whoor sound. His in- terest increased. He finally learned how to hold the saw correctly in order to be able to bend it skillfully and give different sounds. He would sit on a chair, place the handle of the saw between his knees, and with his left hand would hold and bend the saw, placing his thumb on top and the other four fingers at the end. With his right hand he would tap the saw with a little wooden hammer he had made. After he had learned the scales and had become acquainted with the technique of music in school, he learned to pick out the notes on the saw. His hand would get sore at times from holding his queer instrument too long, but he didn ' t notice it, so keen was his interest. After many days of practice he was able to run up and down the scale as fast as a pianist can do on the piano. When he graduated from grammar school, he was able to play a number of selections. People liked to hear him. It was something new — remark- able. He was asked to play for churches and en- tertainments. He became popular. Money poured into his hands — for A hat won ' t people pa ' to hear or see something new! Mike became inspired. He went to high school, playing on his saw. He went to college and when he reached twenty-one he was featured on the great Keith vaudeville circuit at a fabulous salary. Mike, the boy of the slums, who had toiled to perfect his saw playing, had attained happiness.

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THE LEDGER l Seventeen MILADY ' S BOUDOIR Marjorii; Paxgborn (Author ' s note: This title has nothing at all to ilo with the facts here- in presented. Owing to the delicacy of the material now published for the first time, it was conceived to completely disguise the nature of this document. This rightfully should he called, The Revelations of a Cor- respondent. ) Being closely associated with the smoothly manip- ulated mechanism of the Plunk ille Police force, I am qualified to speak with authority upon the secret and heretofore unrevealed methods of that organization. Undoubtedly these startling revela- tions will contribute much to the knowledge of Scotland Yard, which will no doubt make haste to award me a million dollars, but it hasn ' t done so yet. I am bound to divulge these facts in spite of the evil threats upon my life from notorious characters of the underworld. I feel it my duty to humanity to unlock these lips that have long been sealed upon the past. Let us follow the inner workings of the Phuik- ville Police force by a specific example. By inner workings I do not mean digestive processes. The case I refer to was staged in an ancient and dilapidated mansion on a gloomy hill outside the town. The house was darker than the river Styx at midnight, but it would have been heaven to an antique collector. It was in fine condition except that it needed a new porch, seven new floors, sev- entv-one window panes, and eighteen more bricks in the chimney. The domicile had a strange fore- boding atinosphere to the townspeople, for bad luck had followed everyone who had lived in it. Seven persons were known to have died there, and one even went so far as to get married in it. It had always possessed a strange lure for the younger generation of the town, and one of the greatest feats the youths could accomplish was to go to the haunted house at night. It was on one of these occasions that Slivers McGinnity, a Chi- nese lad, and two badly frightened boys, made cer- tain disco eries which I am about to relate, and which had a direct bearing upon the case so aptly sohed hy the able Plunkville Police. Noiselessly the ' crept up the rickety stairs of the old mansion. Then as Slivers gingerly turned the knob of the door on the landing, the portal was swung open by an unseen hand. Wildly the boys tumbled down, then stopped for breath ; they were horrified to hear a shot and a piercing scream. Slivers was seven shades whiter than any ghost could possibly have been when he reported the in- cident to his astonished parents. The parents with true civic pride and with utter disregard of fact re- ported the matter to the police force. I hesitate to make these revolutionary disclosures, but my mind is made up and I will continue at any cost to my peace of mind or love of truth. What did the police force do when this crisis presented itself? . ' t high noon the force mounted his horse and rode away in a body. Arrived at the dwelling, he stood in the door and shouted, Is anyone there? As no one answered in the negative he took it for granted that someone zvas there. This delicate bit of sleuthing should not be underestimated. To show the course of reasoning which his mind followed in propounding that question, let us consider his reasons as recently admitted to me in a personal interview. Reason 1. He wanted to know if anyone really were there. Reason 2. If anyone were there, he wanted him to know that he was there, too. His next step was toward the stairway. A sud- den creaking was heard to come from the upper regions. The sheriff quaked. His next step Avas toward the outside. Let it be understood that he was not moved by any sense of personal fear, for he was as brave as any man who lived, when he had a big chew of Climax in his mouth. Many a time I have seen his beard bristle in anger, and manv a time I have seen him grit his twenty-dollar- per-plate teeth in determination. He later broke down and confessed to me that he had gone out in the yard to search for footprints. He returned to the house and on hands and knees crawled up the stairway still looking for — if the reader doesn ' t know what he was looking for, I do not feel justified in committing myself. He succeeded in reaching the top of the stairs without making any more noise than if he had dragged a piano upside down behind him. The strategy in this mantcuver he later explained to me was to arouse any occupants from their slumbers and give them a fair fighting chance. The sheriff was a fair- minded man. Furthermore, the unearthly racket, according to his logic, would cause the desperadoes to think a whole zoo was coming up the stairway.