East High School - Quill Yearbook (Des Moines, IA)

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o fs for safes Wings The world must love the sound of wings, The fluttering, soaring, evasive things. Delicate wings of brilliant hues, Fine cool wings like morning dews, Wings our hearts keep, but our eyes soon lose, Butterfly wings. Feathery wings of a warm, bright day, Hide and seek with the wind they play, Loving wings that Hy away, Birdling wings. Strong silver wings that mount on high, Light-hearted wings that touch the sky, Wings that show us the way to fly, Wings of Man. The world must love the sound of wings, Fluttering, soaring, evasive things. . . . TXQARGARET PECK, '31. The Biography of a Whirlwind J Even before the sunrise there had been something suffocating in the air. After the sun rose, his rays had beaten on the yellow of the wheat, the dry stubble ofthe barley, the gray-green of the oats, the black-green of the maize, and the black alleys of soil between the corn-rows, like the downward strokes of wielded flame. Every breathing creature needed air, but not the occasional hot putt, now from the south, now at the next movement from the east or the west. These puiis were so hot as to suggest that they had been blown from iireg people moved out of the breeze for comfort, instead of into it. In the northwest, the clouds hung draped in pendant folds. Rising from the southwest was a .vast curtain of clouds. The leaves hung motionless in the parched air. 1 Suddenly appeared the queerly shaped cloud of which they who watch the tornado always tell afterward. The black funnel-shaped cloud hung there, threshing about, moving back and forth like a starved beast searching for food. Everything under it was hidden by sheets of rain or hail or dust or mist! It was coming on, coming fast! Now the funnel touched the earth! And now! Out of its sides and top as it came on, a thousand things were thrown, as if the funnel were a great grinding-machine! A roar like the clashing of railway trains afar off began to be heard. It came on, roaring louder and louder! It was hurling things upward and onward-trees, posts, beams, frag- ments of destroyed buildings. It was dark, and- The tornado was over, but not forgotten. MARGUERITE VVRIGHT, '30. Page Tweutysone

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Dangerous Curves Ahead Dangerous curves ahead! Oh, what a terrible warning for a girl like me, with such a love for good things. It was my mother who decided things had gone far enough, and took matters into her capable hands. I was doomed. ' My form, which was not unshapely but well-padded, was to be chiseled by one method or another until I was the fashionable shape of ai tooth pick, upon which my frocks would hang as though still on a clothes hanger. I rebelled, but the uprising was sternly put down, and I was a target of this cold-bloodedphrase, that it- was for my own good, -odious phrase. ,QE ly ig I submitted to being put on a diet. I-Iow I hated it! None of my favorite dainties could be indulged-I could eat only corn Hakes, while the family enjoyed hot biscuits with melting butter, crisp green salads, flaky baked potatoes, roast pork with its crisp fat still crackling, and a tempting dessert topped with a fluff of whipped cream. I sat nibbling corn flakes and reflecting on the Injustice of Life. Oh, Mom, don't I get ANYTI-IING?', Do you mean to say you want to break your diet at the very first move? Have you no will power F Under her glance I subsided, and my father suggested that perhaps an olive wouldn't hurt me as its caloric value was low. An olive! I wanted FOOD. After two weeks of this, I was led expectantly to the scales, which were to present me with the reward of my torture. One look at its smug, round face informed me, I had lost nearly three-eighths of a pound! Was it worth it? I didn't think so, and I presented myself accordingly at the table for supper, a determined expression on my face. In spite of protest from the family, I ate and ate and ATE, for the first time in fourteen days. ' Peg, if you eat any more, you'll burst, cried Mother. Well, I said coldly, pass the potatoes, and get out of the Way l MARGARET BARRON, '30. An Autumn Leaf The Silent Artist raised his palette, And dipped his brush in the deep sunset, I-Ie spattered a leaf with this autumn red 'Till the bright young thing tossed its silly headg It danced to the music of little gold flowers, Its laughter rang out like bells in far towers, It sang with the stream, and raced with it, too. For it, there was nothing too daring to do. 'Till one day it woke at the first break of dawn, To find all the brightness of Yesterday gone 3 It tried to sing, but its voice made no sound, 'Twas a trepidant leaf that fell to the ground. MARGARET PECK, '31, Page Twenty

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- 'iii try' ig s Of Praise fWith Apologies to Baconj Praise is the reflection of virtue, but it is as the glass or body which giveth the reflection. This is a complete sermon in one sentence. Images are the reflections of forms, but they are as the mirror or body which giveth the reiiection. Have you ever been in the Fun House or the House of Troubles at Riverview? If you have, you will know what I mean. Those of you who have, will remember those queer shaped mirrors which reflect your image in many impossible, crooked, and queer forms. We may liken human beings to those mirrors. Have you ever stopped to think what kind of a person it was who was praising you? For my part, I can tell what persons I want to associate with by what and whom they praise, and I think that most of us are inclined to be that way. It is not always your praiser who is your friend. The one who rep- rimands you is thinking more of you than your praiser is, because your praiser is risking nothing by praising you, while your reprimander is risking theiloss of your friendship. I think that is one of the points Bacon tries to make clear in his essay. It seems as if times have not changed. much in this respect. Doesn't it? ' ' There are so many false points of praise, that a man may justly hold it a suspect. just think how true that is today. No, human nature does not so easily change as do dress, mode of living, and our idea as to what constitutes a luxury. ROBERT GREEN, '30. E Lost! A mystery, worthy even of Van Dine's efforts, has successfully baffled the astute minds of the East High students. Early this semester, Mr. Lyman, biology teacher, discovered one of his three valued frogs miss- ing. He immediately put his sleuths on the trail. Many theories, which were more or less imaginative, considering that no clues were found con- cerning the fate of the poor frog, were advanced at that time. Some claimed that the frog had been kidnapped for the ransom which the ab- ductors felt sure would be forthcoming. However, as no black-hand missiles or letters were received at the time, this theory was abandoned in favor of more reasonable ones. Others of the amateur detectives spent their time following up a lead which they felt sure would solve the mystery. These sleuths claimed that Jimmy Frog had eloped with either Miss Liver or Miss Kidney, or perhaps both of these charming young ladies, for they, too, were missing from the lab. Those who supported this theory based their case on the fact that jimmy always had shown a decided interest in the two ladies. Once before when he had escaped from his 'fhomej' he had been found curled up between these two beauties. However, their efforts came to naught, for not a trace of jimmy was found. If he did decide to elope with these two ladies, he made good his escape and is no doubt living peacefully at Salt Lake City. If he is there and happens to see this article, we wish he would com- municate with his friends, for they are greatly concerned as to his fate. A very devoted friend, Mr. Bull-snake, became violently ill at the time of Jimmie's disappearance, and recovered only after weeks of anxiety. After such a long departure, Mr. Lyman seems to think that Jimmy has croaked. RICHARD MCGAHAN, '3O. Page Twenty-two