Faulkner School for Girls - Kismet Yearbook (Chicago, IL)

Page 19 text:

Those Old Classmates of Mine As I sit here in the evening by my fireside all alone, Dreaming o’er the happy moments my high school days have known, The flickering of the firelight weaves a shadowy design, And I see the smiling faces of those old classmates of mine. And I feel again the flutter of that little freshman band, As we started on our journey, all our golden future planned, When we should all be Seniors and have nothing else to do But pity little Freshmen and write a theme or two. The studious and the merry, the fickle and the true, The brown eyes, and the grey eyes and the eyes of azure blue Look out upon me smiling. Oh, ’tis a joy divine To see again the faces of those old classmates of mine! Then the well-remembered faces of our loyal teachers start Into being in the firelight bright as memories in my heart Of their wisdom and their counsel in the dear old golden time, When they so wisely guided those old classmates of mine. But, oh, my dream is broken! The black log burns alone, And the hearth is growing darker and my memories all are flown, And I feel the teardrops starting as I think upon the time When I’ll say farewell to teachers and those old classmates of mine. Ann Decker HAVE YOU HEARD? Miss Davis: Does it not? Miss Faulkner: Posture! Miss Breslich: In-ter-es-ting. Madame Baillot: Mais, elle est si mignonne. Miss Moulton: Literat-ure. Miss Jones: Game-point-tournament. Miss Mack: What color is Noah’s white cat? Miss Canfield: Construction-case and why. Miss Farr: Where were you last Wednesday? Two Seniors Deidara ay is IN DESPERATION It’s not that I mind writing Stuff you use to fill up space; But just look around you And see the look on sister’s face. You see, she has to listen to everything I do; So [Pl just send this contribution, And the best of luck to you! Bobbe Mayer Page 15

Page 18 text:

LIGHTS It was midnight of a clear night. It had rained most of the day and the streets and buildings were still wet. All I could see was lights; lights to the right and lights to the left; lights above me, lights below me. In fact, there were lights all around me. They were getting on my nerves. Lights, lights, lights, real and artificial. There were small and. large lights; bright and dull lights. Some of the lights flashed on and off; some remained lighted all the time. There were colored lights and white lights. Some of the moving lights resembled comets with their reflections in the street appearing as the comets’ tails. Some of the comets appeared in pairs, others singly. They always seemed to move in bunches with dark spaces between. Others of the lights—the very small ones—seemed to wink at me. One of the large lights just stared at me with an almost human expression. The lights were getting me! Then suddenly I came out of my trance and decided to o into my Pent-house where it was dark and where there would be no more horrifying ghts, lights, lights! g 5 li Florence Booth This Topsy-Turvy World It was only seven-forty-five when Virginia, always the first Senior to arrive, popped her head in the school door, her cheeks ruddy after her long walk from home. She quickly went to “Study,” arranging a waste paper basket so as to act as a receiver for the ball of paper which she tried to get in. She tried once, twice, three times and finally gave up in despair muttering, “Oh, well, we can’t all be athletes.” At eight-twenty the room was filled with giggling school girls, fresh after their ten hours of sleep of the previous night, yet above all the noise and hubbub, one Senior could be heard—Marion, of course—shouting, as always, at the top of her lungs to that irresponsible, scatter-brained chum of hers, Phil. What a pair! Marion continu- ally screaming around and Phil never remembering to do anything. Suddenly a shout arose from the crowd welcoming the heroine of yesterday’s basket- ball game—Marg, who strode up the aisle glowering at all who came to exclaim about her unusual athletic ability. In marked contrast, at her side, was Florence, who with mincing steps had gracefully advanced to her desk and was already deep in her books. Her marks indicate clearly the results of her diligent studying. Over in one corner of the room sat quiet, demure Ann, observing all, with a con- descending smile and refusing to speak until spoken to. At her side sat Betty poring over a sheaf of musical papers, learning every note and humming loudly to herself. Just as the last bell rang, a whirlwind burst through the open door. After settling down to a trot, her usual rate of speed, she was discovered to be the very gloomy, credulous, athletic, simple Bobbe, who sweetly called the first period girls to order. By Herself IMPRESSIONS Florence Booth: Cambric tea... night life . . . sugar. Virginia Buettner: Cream ... woman champion... rights for women. Betty Cheney: Curls... pep... sprites... girl athlete. Phyllis Cummins: Permanents . . . busy lady . . . society. Ann Decker: Enthusiasm ... green eyes . . . young boy’s dream . . . career. Marion Jernberg: Sweden . .. country maid . . . giggles. Bobette Mayer: Sophisticate . . . red fingernails . . . smooth hair. Marjorie von Hermann: England... peaches and cream . . . efficiency. Two Seniors Page 14

Page 20 text:

To My Mice Ah, little mice, it’s to thee I sing— The ones who pains to others bring When you scat across the floor, Or, perchance, peer ’round the door. You nibble here and nibble there, And people always wonder where You put most of their crumbs and food Is it all taken back to your hungry brood? You’re welcome to the cheese I put in the trap If only you won’t scratch when I’m tak- ing a nap; So scamper home to your hidden nest And, for Pete‘s sake, let me get some rest. M. Von Hermann