George E Westinghouse High School - Sketch Book Yearbook (Pittsburgh, PA)

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, -1 .lr- The Gold-Digger Thar ain't a single person in this wide, wide worlcl of ours Who don't have an opinion of a' place to spend his hours. Y' know, his final ones, I mean-a place to rest an' such. But whoa! I'm jest ramblin' on an' ain't a-sayin' much. Go on, you say? Wal, lissen then, an' I will tell you why I'm lonesome hyar an' out of sorts an' fool enuf to cry. A pretty home lies in th' hillsg thet little home is mine, An' yet I'm down hyar huntin' gold. Why, I'm jest a-wastin' time. 'Twar in the fall, I recolleck, thet I wuz up thar lastg Th' leaves wuz jest a turnin' like they do when SLIIIIIHCIJS past. Th' trees wuz all a-glowin' an' th' hills wuz all ablaze With yaller, red, an' golden brown. Oh, them wuz happy days! Now take out hyar: th' sun shines down, an' things is dried an' black With scorchin' heat thet goes right thru the shirt thet's on yore back- An' doesn't stop, but goes right thru an' presses on yore soul. An, bleachin' bones lie in th' sun at ev'ry water hole. I'm jest a fool fer stayin' hyar in all this heat an' sweat. Why, feller, in thet little shack's a fortune better yet Than all the gold thet's hid down hyarg an' I'm agoin' back An' end my burnt-out lifetime in th' coolness of thet shack. Herbert McCollum. The Church Service A solemn voice reverberates throughout the hall 5 VVith deep amen it halts, creating silence that Is broken not by sounds of those within the doors. With mingling of the unlike voices from the crowd And organ's thund'rous throbbing notes, the worshippers praise Their God, and give thanksgiving for the right to live. The service ends with muffled pad of many feet In harmony with meditating minds that trust In that mysterious One who reigns supreme o'er all. Adolfvll Clrfjvlix. Twenty-one 1 . 4' ' ' . .i .Ira ' :Y T-

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Tfwcnty 'ly l' 1, Y H' Masters of Art Some girls of today are artistic: They've studied their paints from the start. Though few seek diplomas from VVellesley, All aim to be masters of art. In each dresser drawer that's opened Are numerous boxes and jars Of powders, rouges and lipsticks- Such stuff that must make, or it mars. In this type of art as in others, Professional painters are rareg And she who would make herself pretty Must know how to handle with care. For facial expressions are ruined By plucking the eyebrows too thin And leaving fine lines on the forehead To show where thick eyebrows have been. Now faces, they say, have the power Our innermost thought to impart. We'd better intrust them to nature. Ol' else IJCCOITIC l'1'l21StCl'S of aft. E I i::a.b Suppose I am a queen with jeweled crown, With regal court and gorgeous gown, With noble birth of great renown- All this, you know, is just suppose. I am an idol of the screen, The center of its vivid sheen, With world-wide fame at seventeen- All this. you know, is just suppose. I am a very puzzled girl, Confused as joy and sorrow twirl Me quite about in life's swift whirl- And this. of course, is not suppose. efh Piuckney Elfisabcflz Sfru0'z10 - 'Y in 1,71 ig' 1 -1-'. 'Y

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' Il l T ! w ii l Q! 3! l J! I M J! H i I Twenty-two 2 Y Y Y tv -- The Football Game The crowds push through the guarded way. Fur coats and tams shunt cold of day. The hues of brilliant gold and blue Are adding vim and vigor, too. Our team is hailed with many cheersg Their faces show they have no fears. All voices rise with main and might Yea, team! Fight! Fight! Fight! With kick-off high the battle starts: The players move with lightning darts. The ball is thrown from side to side- First quarter, and the score is tied! The boosters rise excitedlyg Each hopes his team will winner be. All voices rise with main and might Yea, team! Fight! Fight! Fight! Again the teams resume their speed- Three-quarters and as yet no lead! Both sides light hard to make a scoreg We gain ten yards-then soon ten more. A pass! A rush! A speedy run- The Bulldog now a touch-down's won. Our hearts while homeward-bound are lightg The Silver-Lakers Won the fight! Elizabeth Levifin The Tramp I saw him pass along the road, A broken, spent, degraded soul, Plodding his weary way along To distant hills and fields and towns. I saw him pass across the hill, A bent and broken child of time, Betrayed by man and cast aside To force his way through life's thick mists. I., stood and wondered as I saw His form descend behind the hill Why God's own child should have to be A broken, spent, and helpless thing. Jean Hardy .1 Ami- -1 L X' L-1-1 tl-I! Y 1-1 nf ,F