Grant High School - Memoirs Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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Page 18 MEMOIRS U.S. Grant my owner’s relatives their first joy ride? Had not they been joyful and happy over me? And now, did I deserve such abandon? Alas! My chagrin was to be greater! One day a dirty, ignorant, junk dealer drove up and asked Mr. Farmer if he had anything to sell. My master replied, “Well, yes. Over in that wooden shack is a pile of junk which might be of use to you. But say,” he called as the man walked toward my shack, “you might leave the engine. I may use it some time.” Such was the end of a faithful car. —Barbara Jane Averili.. The Tired Sophomore (Inspired by Longfellow) It was the tired sophomore In the seat in front of me, And he hath taken a wee freshman To bear him company. The freshie’s eyes were blue as lakes, And his hair was like the sun, And his little voice ran on and on Like the brook which ne’er is done. “And what means ’hie, haec, hoc’ kind sir?” And the little freshman cried. “It? meaneth ‘this’ and also ‘he’.” Proudly, the soph replied. “And what means ‘is, ea and id?” He asked in voice so sweet “It meaneth ‘He’ and ‘she’ and ‘it’— Stop bouncing on the seat.” But here they both got off the bus; The bell was ringing then. The little freshie had six books; The soph’more had a pen. I saw them not throughout the day; My thoughts were all in ’math’; But when dismissal bell had rung, I saw them on the path. The sophomore was very glum The freshie—he was gay. The soph’more moaned and groaned aloud, To the freshie he did say: “I know I don’t deserve this grade, I’ve learned my lessons, too.” The frosh received an all “E” card; The soph had nought but “U.” —Tom Frewen.

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U. S. Grant MEMOIRS Page 17 Autobiography of a Ford (1910-1912 A.D.) WAM A FORD (the best car made) and I was born in Metroit, Jc Michigan. My given name is Henry, and I have a twin sister, Lizzie, for whom I am often mistaken. My mother was a wheelbarrow, born in Mew Narket, Dichigan. My father was a “Rolls Rough” born in Yew Nork, Yew Nork. I left my home in Metroit when I was sold to Mr. Farmer for seventy-five dollars down, and three dollars a week. Mr. Farmer was the most peculiar piece of humanity I have ever seen. He did not have the slightest conception of driving a good car, and I was in misery each time he took me out of his barn—my special lodging house. He continually persisted in shifting me from low to reverse, and then calling me some queer names if I went backwards. One day he took me out of my house and around the block, stopped in front of a strange looking barn, and sounded my horn. Almost immediately the door opened, and out of the house swarmed all of Mr. Farmer’s family and relatives, exclaiming “Let’s drive to Cill’s Horners! Let’s drive to Cill’s Horners!” Oh, what excruciating agony I suffered that day! On our return trip Mr. Farmer drove me into a telephone post and made my nose bleed; he drove too close to some fence posts and scratched off part of my nice shiny complexion. As his relatives climbed out they declared, “We have spent a most enjoyable afternoon. Please come and take us riding in that wonderful car again.” That cheered me up some. I was then put into my barn and was expected to sleep, but who could after such a day? I stayed awake all that night wondering where my sweet mother, noble father, twin sisters and brothers were; wondering if they had owners more capable, who could fully appreciate valuable cars. Day after day my owner took me over the same roads; stopped at the same houses: took in the same number of quarts of milk; and returned home at the same time in the evening. After ten months of this hard labor. I was deeply wounded to hear my master say, “I have ridden around in that shabby old rattle-trap all 1 intend to. 1 am absolutely ashamed to take the milk around to the houses, let alone go to church in it. I think I will get a Buick, as that bright young salesman told me I had better.” A nice new house was built for Betsy Buick while I was locked up in my old shack. Mr. Farmer brought visitors out to inspect Betsy, and he would point out all the good points, saying proudly: “Look at this powerful engine; look at these new non-skid tires; look at this automatic windshield wiper.” Then for the first time I looked at myself. My fenders were half off ; my doors were half off their hinges; my top was in rags, and I had only one wheezing cylinder left. But had I not been faithful? Had I not traveled the rough, muddy roads where no other car could go? Had I not been Mr. Farmer’s first car, the one who taught him to drive? Had 1 not given

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U. 8. Giant MEMOIRS Page in A “Sclumptious” Dinner LOWLY I opened my eyes, blinked a little, then gazed around delightedly at my surroundings. To think that at last I had my wish and was finally settled at this Arizona ranch for the summer. My gaze wandered from my small white cot over to the rustic dressing table, to the small mirror on the roughly plastered wall and finally to the open window where a single bee droned lazily and hovered about a tall holly-hock that peeped in the window. The morning sunlight streamed in upon my bed and seemed fairly to beckon me outdoors, and as a result, I ran to the low window and resting my chin in one hand gazed out upon that far-reaching, sage-smelling desert that seemed to stretch to the ends of nowhere. The pungent odor of the sage mingled with the delightful freshness of the air caused me to feel very hungry, and I dressed hurriedly, eager to explore this wonderful out-of-doors. When I arrived in the dining-room, I discovered that everyone else had eaten and that I was to be alone at the breakfast table. Ching Lee, the Chinese cook and waiter combined, brought me a delicious breakfast that only Chinese cooks can make. He chattered incessantly in his native tongue as he served me, so that I was obliged to lay down the magazine I had brought to read. I think he was saying his prayers by the way he ran back and forth across the room waving his arms and chattering in that sing-song voice of his, but I was too polite to ask and calmly went on eating. I finally swallowed the last piece of toast that I could possibly eat and picking up my broad-rimmed shade hat I started for the door. Ching Lee followed me anxiously and as I stopped he sing-songed in his funny way: “You no likee blekfas?” I nodded brightly at him and with a smile answered, “It was scrumptious, Ching Lee. The finest ever,” and went out into the garden, leaving a rather bewildered Chinaman behind who was murmuring to himself, “sclumptious, sclumptious.” The garden was a real, little oasis in that arid desert and contained every sweet-smelling and pretty-faced flower that ever graced a small garden. I gave a glance towards the peonies and the mignonette and deciding that there was too much else to see, drew in a deep breath that brought to me the scent of roses mingled with heliotrope and baby-breath, and sauntered out towards the corral. Here I found my uncle, who had brought me here, and he immediately took me over to meet some of his cowboys. “I’m sorry, Little Jane,” uncle said (he always called me ‘Little Jane.’ Why, I don’t know when I was all of fourteen.) “I’m sorry but I'll have to leave you for about a week. You see, we have to take a herd of Jerseys over to Pete Bronson, and I’ll have to start this afternoon. Will you mind. Little Jane?” He pinched my cheek affectionately, as I leaned forward eagerly. “Can’t you take me with you, uncle?” I asked. “I would so love to go.” He shook his head and my hopes sank. “No, I’m afraid not. Be too rough riding for you.” Finally, after much coaxing and wheedling, I persuaded him to let me go, and he went off to have a pony saddled for me. Delighted. I