Girls High School - Journal Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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 The Journal Rose Marie Kiernan Claudia Mullen HIGH FRESHMEN No wonder the iB’s have a history worth while recording. The initiative ability of Rose Marie Kiernan, president; Ana Santa Cruz, vice-president; Eileen Renner, secretary; Barbara Cummings, treasurer; Ray Gorton, cheer leader; Doris Weinstrom, sergeant-at-arms; and Syra Nahman, Mirror” reporter, has carried the class through an eventful term. Among the students participating in school activities, are Babette Frank, shining star of the iB Debating Team and the best high freshman orator in the Individual Speaking Contest, Syra Nahman, a budding journalist to whom we owe several interesting articles in the Mirror,” and Katherine Vasilatos, one of the few contestants to reach the finals in the Shakespearian Contest. As a crowning achievement, the iB’s point to the successful Freshman Dramatic Club Play, The Stolen Prince.” It rarely happens that so many clever little actresses are the product of a single class. LOW FRESHMEN We of the iA class are very proud of ourselves, and have good reason to be. First, we have good officers who are: Claudia Mullen, our president; Marina Malone, our secretary; Lillian Roth, our treasurer; and Dorothy Anspach, our Mir- ror” reporter. Second, in our freshman play, The Stolen Prince,” Antoinette Zellerbach, Claudia Mullen, Dorothy Browning, and Consuelo Bley showed remarkable dra- matic ability. Third, at the Parent-Teachers’ Association meeting, more of the freshmen’s par- ents came, than those of any other class. Fourth, our debaters, California Young, Edith Short, Lois Lees, and Lucille Frank showed us that they shall win many victories for Girls High. Now, we ask you frankly, don’t you think that we have reason to be proud? [ twenty-four ]

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The y o u R N A L GOD AND HE UNDERSTOOD He shivered. Cold and hunger were bad enough, but loneliness was worse. With his hands pressed to his empty stomach, and his coat collar turned up, he wan- dered into the place. He loved to go in and finger the dear old things. How he wished he could buy back his own! But he had just a pound, and that would have to go the next day. In a corner of the place, surrounded by various things, lay two or three violins rather battered looking. But one of them! One—why, you could tell in an instant it was a Strad. A beautiful thing! Lovely to look upon, and—how he wished he might play on it! The man sauntered up. Like to try ’em? I don’t suppose they’re very good, though.” Here take this pound, and lend me this one over night,” was all he said. Retain- ing his dignity only until he had left the place, he carried the lovely thing home. Each block seemed a mile, and he walked as if in a dream. His mind and heart went flying ahead while his poor body struggled with distance. At last he arrived. In a moment he was looking at that beautiful Stradivarius—and then picking it up. For fifteen minutes he stood tuning, tuning. When every string was at perfection, he locked the door and began. He had played on Strads before, even the Betts- Strad;” but this one surpassed them all. The notes flowed out, round, sweet bubbles of perfection; and in his heart, he felt and heard the soul of a wonderful instrument. He was in another world and played to another world. Played what only he and God understood. It was not Beethoven that he played, nor Bach, Brahms, or Debussy. It was he, the real man. Not the man you could see and touch, but the naked man. In those hours that he played, he came face to face with the Almighty, walked with Him in the Path of Wisdom, and understood. The soul of the violin had led the soul of the man to Truth; and when he learned, he, or rather the man you could see and touch, sank to the floor in a crumpled heap. At the door had been standing the living. He knocked great, rough knocks, but only silence answered. More knocks. More silence. Knocks increasing to poundings. Let me in!” More silence. And a heavy shoulder brought down the door with a crash. A gasp. A sigh. And the living walked over to the dead. H’m! Looks like a Strad! Yes! And he was as poor as a church mouse.” He picked up the instrument, and started to play. At the first stroke of the bow, he was astonished; for the sound was not the same that he had heard.The violin was good—had nice tone—had no wolves.” But where, where, had gone the beautiful spirit of the instrument? The sympathetic beauty, and the understanding soul of the Strad had left the thing that you could see and touch, and gone with the sympathetic beauty and the understanding soul of the man. [ twenty-six ] Elisabeth Larsh, December ’27.