Grant High School - Memoirs Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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Page 22 MEMOIRS V. S. Grant The Sleeping Babe a MASS of tousled, golden curls in bright relief against the snowy pillow; a pair of baby eyes, closed in sound slumber, the dark lashes sweeping the rosy cheeks; a pair of baby lips, rose-red, and parted slightly, as though pausing in the delights of the bottle of milk nestled in the relaxed arms; two little hands, carelessly resting on the pillow and sheet, pausing in their eternal childish business; a little playsuit, rompers of bright pink and waist of snowy white, symbolic of golden play-days; a pair of chubby little legs, dimpled and sturdy, quiet at last from the joyous, never-tiring action of babyhood; two little cherub feet, clad in booties of bright pink; this is the sleeping babe, healthy and cheerful, in one of its pauses in the gleeful play of happy babyhood. -Josephine Oi-sson.

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V. 8. Grant MEMOIRS Page 21 one hundred feet, fifty feet! Closer, closer! I was now but a few feet from the leader and was standing half up in my saddle at one side, my arm raised with the rope in my grasp. I was suddenly aware of hoarse cries in the rear, but I stayed in my saddle and neither turned nor answered. I was now nearly abreast of the beast, and I whirled my arm, then swung. An instant I paused and noted with pride that the noose had landed neatly over the Jersey’s head, and I pulled tight. Then still holding the rope, I turned and lashed the pony with the whip and urged him forward. “Speed, boy, speed!” I whispered and turned the pony away from the chasm. The rope did not cut my hand as I had first surmised for the snorting bull did not hesitate to follow once we had him under control. For one fleeting moment I turned and saw that the whole herd had swerved from the chasm and were all gradually slowing down. I urged the pony on for one more minute; then I let the rope slip from my hand and had the satisfaction of seeing the leader stumble along a few steps then stop and shake his shaggy head from side to side, snorting and stamping angrily. I heard a shout behind me and turned in time to see one of the cowboys riding towards me waving his hat like a madman. I turned and grinned at him cheerfully—then I knew no more. I awoke for the second time that day to find myself riding along with my uncle in his saddle. “How are you. Little Jane?” he said softly and anxiously. I smiled up at him and replied that I was as fine as ever. “And how is the herd?” I inquired, noticing for the first time that the shadows of evening had fallen and that the last rays of a dying sun were just disappearing over the horizon. “With your help, little heroine, they are traveling towards Pete Bronson’s;” then more seriously, “You know, Little Jane, I owe you a great deal for saving my herd. Every last one of them would have fallen into Rocky Canyon if it hadn’t been for you. I—I—can’t tell you, Jane, how—” he broke off with a little catch in his voice. “But aren’t we going towards Mr. Bronson’s, too?” I questioned. He need not have answered, for at that moment I caught sight of our own log cabins and could see a dim outline of my aunt on the porch. I was disappointed at having to miss the trip, but deep down in my heart I was really glad to be home again. I waved to the figure on the porch, and soon we were standing on the steps while uncle explained our hasty return and told auntie to put me to bed. Here I voiced my disapproval and stoutly refused to .go to bed, declaring that I was perfectly all right and needed no sleep. Suddenly a crowd of cowboys rode up to the door and demanded to see the “desert heroine.” I wondered whom they meant and was certainly surprised when uncle brought me forth and told me to “bow nicely to the gentlemen.” The row of smiling faces before me somehow frightened me more than had that herd leader. 1 suddenly ran indoors while a great cheer went up from their lusty cowboy throats. It sounded like a lot of unnecessary noise to me, so I went in and asked Ching Lee to make me some dinner. He grinned broadly at me and answered in his usual sing-song fashion, “Ching Lee make Mees Jane sclumptious dinner?” —Phyllis Calderwood.

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MEMOIRS Page 23 V. 8. Grant Htoaris Scholarship Letters tfT the close of last term letters were awarded for scholarship. A jX red letter was given for an “E” average in all subjects, and a blue letter for all “E’s” for four quarters. At the end of the present term, another scholarship letter will be added to the group. This is a gray and blue letter for all “E’s for eight quarters. The following students won scholarship letters: Blue Letters Elizabeth Scott John Skinner Albert Arnst Elizabeth Burch Olive Christianson Wilmadene Rickolson Roberta Denny Marjorie Nelson Bernice Woodard Red Letters Jane Archbold Howard Johnson Grace Baird Virginia Green Frances Bittner Marjorie Needham Harry Browne Hazel Packer Roberta Burch Leo Reirstad Richard Ferguson Marvin Anderson Earl Cramer Mary Edelson Evelyn Cooke Wilma Enke Jean Doyle Sarah Hallam Walter Durham Mary Foster Winifred Duncan Helen Hurd Dorothy Dowling Margaret Kempenich Dora Goodin Eleanor Look Martha Hystad Harriet Medernach Alladine Hollister Helen Mielke Frank Robinson Josephine Olsson Edith Smith Geven Panton Merle Starr Jean Smith Dorothy Moffatt Mary Reynolds Abigail Moreland Garner Talboy Virginia Paris Robert Templeton Clifford Payne Betty Woerner Fred Tate Harold Frauendorf David Tobey Norman Scoville Lucile Wallace Ferrin Moreland Adele Wedemeyer Edward Wells Dorothy Anderson Virginia Wells Margaret Ansley Espen White Katherine Conkle Viola Beydler Minnie Elmer Rodney Lloyd Bruce Wells Louise McArthur