Hillsdale School - Telescope Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

Text from Pages 1 - 76 of the 1955 volume:

4 Sl SATS eee: ys uaa ve 2 se aca SSS ee ae REE GT ete OT ea ee rn tn } j t } f i k i 5 bd 4 t fa j { ' y + ‘ i t i t l t f - t y t a ‘ea. { 1 t ig } , MY eoxeax MALLANIKL , VI feEse y= pead re od Kawing eae te aw. 5 nO OE rey d CK eh echo ? “FN ot se ober_ola_ fj V a edd et w a phe cag a Ay , a . Poe Fe re A 5 ne ae ? no 4 ry ¥ i if —— SJ LNA AMINA UN 3 1833 07540 3797 Pr Ry Rk oA ‘- % 7+ Qeaasansaave Telescope EDITORIAL The concert hall is hushed in anticipation. Suddenly, upon the podium, Miss Fessenden raises her baton and the Hillsdale orchestra begins to play. The perfection of this concert is the result of a year of hard work on the part of every girl. The hours of practice are long and dull; a violin screeches in one room, and a flute trills off-key in another. We struggle endlessly with hockey techniques and “that simply impossible” page of Latin. A Seven, bent over her book battling with the complexities of “etre,” has no idea of “Mlle’s” intention that one day she will speak fluent French. And yet, some- how, slowly the contrasting melodies begin to blend. Occasionally, a note of discord comes from a careless musician, but she is quick to change her tune under the conductor’s guidance. A musician once told me that certain instruments are not meant to be heard; “You're just supposed to feel them.” And so the Hillsdale orchestra, to sound full and rich, must have the support of every member, even the smallest Seven. The theme we play is one of infinite variations. It is not always gay, but became solemn when the sorrow of three losses struck our halls. Now, howeyer, as the final concert for twenty-four of the orchestra’s musicians dr lose, the music is bright and lively. The tempo quick- t grows in rapid crescendo. With the crashing cymbals of final examinations, the trumpet blast of Award Day, and the majestic melody of “Pomp and Circumstance,” we hope our conductor will be able to say for years to come that our concert was truly, “the best ever.” ens and the ex ANNUAL BOARD Editor-in-Chie{ [I ee LOUISE RITCHEY Literary gidier 24. ee ee ee JODY MORGENS Literary and Photography Editor _. JULIE SNOW Arti Editon ee sae Pea Pots Mens ns Ba he ELEANOR VINKE Business Manager2. 22 ae eee JILL HALLERMAN The Annual Board wishes to thank Miss Ferguson, Miss Emig, Miss Twining, Miss Shellberg, and the P.T.A. An- nual Committee for their invaluable help in the production of this book. Senior photographs by CARL CARLSON MRS. LOTSPEICH’S Photograph by JAMES MANCUSO “American Constitutional History” does not sound very musical. But Miss Sheffield has put melody and rhyme, as well as reason, into it. She first joined our staff seven years ago; since then she has become one of our favorite themes. Always she has been our friend and eounséblor, with the musician’s sixth sense in detecting a strained note in Our daily rhythm. When we come into the room, Miss Sheffield seems to know instinctively if all is not strictly on pitch, or if we are lagging behind the beat. We often leave her class on such days with grateful thank-you’s for no next-day’s assignment, or a postponed test. She keeps us from wandering from the main key, and we have come to recognize her familiar little refrains, such as: ““‘Where are my glasses?,” “Fair enough,” “Play with it,” “To be con- tinued,” ‘“‘Hello, dear,”’ and ‘“‘Look for trends.” Because of her, there is music in the History room; indeed, to paraphrase an old song: “She shall make music wherever she goes.” FLORENCE E. FESSENDEN ‘aw oA 3 a4 yy fr . 4 ee wv 4 e . J me KA SES weyaer yy vv fr Y w Y WL yf a BS J V “ 74 v 2 © 12 : 4 NY A, he Pi 9 ‘YY Yo� irst Violins Se 90S W fx] = © — i. pC op) HELEN DIANE CLARK CYNTHIA CLARISSA COOPER JANE RICHARDS DUMMER MARY ALLISON DRYDEN ANN CATHERINE FIELDS VIRGINIA LYNN FRY | SYLVIA ELIZABETH FREY D = S op = is pe = Zz, Zz = = me = = = = an c pe = = a Ss = = fx] val = MADELEINE JILL HALLERMAN SARAH JANE KLEIN am = z Fx = WN fx O Zz pc Fe os pc ep) JOANNE WAKEFIELD MORGENS 16 | LOUISE GIBBS RITCHEY JACQUELINE PATTISON SANDRA SCHMIDLAPP ¥ ; | a | 1 JULIANA SNOW - pc = c = © = == S WY i Z, = a i 19 MARY LENORE TALLENTIRE ELIZABETH ANNA WILEY ELEANOR CHAPIN VINKE Fritzi 22 Lisanna Sally K. Eleanor Seed i eae a a j Nick! AMES Always ready for fun . . . sleepy dashes to school in her jeep philosophy, art, music . . . loves Greenwich Village . . . “When in- dividualism becomes exhibitionism” . that come-hither look . . . her tiny lithp. Mimi ANDREWS Beautiful but not so dumb... pink nightcap .. . the day she made fruitcake . . . her word for the week . . . Freshman Day Bible . . . three attempts to get a driver’s license . .. Yum-Yum, Lover and Pam. DIANE CLARK “Clarkie” . . . good-natured chuckle . state of perpetual confusion . “T don’t understand” .. . connec- tions with Fuller Brushes . . . desk hog ... “Sugar and cream?” CINNIE COOPER Horse play in the halls . . . “Sandy! HELP!” . . . monopoly on male at- tention . . . “I haven’t copied it over yet” . . . “You know what makes me so mad?” . . . future Florence Nightingale. Mary DRYDEN “Come on, Greens. Let’s have some teamwork!” . . . the power of posi- tive thinking . . . “Now let me get this straight . . . good things come in small packages . . . bundle of energy ... future: M.R.S. degree. JANE DUMMER Her little red wagon . . . always de- pendable . . . “Can anybody work this Friday?” . . . thoughtful frown “Let’s reorganize this thing” . . . beautiful Panis at Christmas. FRiITz1 FIELDS Bambi eyes . . . enveloped in her Yale scarf... flashy red convertible . .. “Gee, I’m poohed out” . . . be- wildered stare . . . tiny and trim ... little gold. heart with momentous date. SYLVIA FREY Fudge connoisseur . . . ““Who’s got a comb?” . .. passion for science fiction . . . “I can only play in D flat” . . . constant dilemma: take off her glasses or see her date ... struggles: with the venetian blinds. LyNN FRY “Lou Fou” .. . the troublesome younger set ... at school at 8:30 ... “you spell it FRY”... lengthy stag line ... St. Louis woman... “Hey Golds, got anything for the bulletin board?” .. . “We need more spirit!” MARILYN GAY Weekend invitations . . . shiny-neat hair . . . “Please pay your library fines” . . . always in a haze . “Um, I don’t know” . .. got the giggles . . . “Can’t we wear lip- stick?” Jit HALLERMAN Kitchen magician . . . ever-present pillow .. . “Serchay le sanchon” . .. loyal to Sigma Chi . . future kindergarten teacher . . . simply il- legible handwriting. JANE HILL Strong, silent type . . . Leon and Spots... Italian sailor... “SHUT UP! pleeese” . . . always in a hurry - . ecstatic sighs when someone mentions the “Nieuw Amsterdam” or “La Mer.” SALLY KLEIN Admiral of the Fleet . . . General Information Bureau . . . the first to finish her experiments, which al- ways work ... her crazy giggle . always willing to help . . . “Well, first of all” . . . future: hemline dictator. SALLY MAYFIELD Elusive Southern accent . . . “Hey, yall! Wait up!” . . . American Forces in Germany . . . that wide, cheery smile . . . elongated eye- lashes . . . her “bonus” on the “Ile de France.” BARBARA McELRoyY Furs in boxes .. . “I have two ques- tions” . . . her vast appreciation of a joke ... dynamic enthusiasm... . uninhibited questions . . . 15-mile dash . . . growing petunias in the desert . . . potential member of the Yale varsity football team. Jopy MorceENs Perpetual (?) diet . . . matchless versions of opera stories .. . “What do you think of this suggestion?” adores Italy, Italians and the Vulcania” . . . natural affinity for math . . . future glass blower. JACKIE PATTISON Chugging around in her Hillman... running out of gas . . . perpetual suntan ... -ologies and -isms.. . “Oh, more or less” . . . handwriting expert... “Let’s work up a quar- tet; I’ll sing the descant” .. . Our Gal Friday. LouIsE RITCHEY Organizer . . . devotion to Fred Waring .. . endless enthusiasm for “projects” . . . champion letter writ- er . . . “Would anyone like a cock- er puppy’). .... . “Look, this is serious!” . . . weakness for earrings and minestrone. SANDY SCHMIDLAPP Practical joker . . . confirmed Con- federate . . . fluffy Italian haircut . class clown .. . “dizzy blonde” .. . fond of “earl” wells ...a true Continental . . . she’s Alabammy- bound. ARLENE SCHROEDER The gift of gab... her prolific Sia- mese cats... “Well, Tommy thinks” . .. basketball whiz . . . washing her hair at 6:00 A.M.! ... human dyna mo... junior Pavlova... E-X-T- R-A long scarf. JULIE SNow Blanche Neige . . . nimble needle . shutterbug . . . light, shadows and surrealism . . . infectious merri- ment in French class . . . “Bon! Bon!” . . . exotic jewelry and vivid patterns . . . crystal-grower .. . “I detect a note of sarcasm” .. . ticket bureau . . . “Greetin’s.” MARY TALLENTIRE Uncultured curls . . . a farm girl at heart . . . “I am very happy to introduce” . . . creamy skin and whistlebait figure . . . headed for Denison . . . characteristic tranquil- lity . . . sunny disposition. ELEANOR VINKE Deadpan humor . . . extremes of mood ... gingersnaps . . . green eyes with a twinkle ... the quiet type ... shy smile . ... mountains of crinolines . . . always says the un- expected . . . replacement for Ed Sullivan LISANNA WILEY Striking brunette . . . pepsodent smile . . . perfect hostess .. . strike up the band . . . backyard street- Canes Oh Lethinkwthatsea moti . .. photogenic features . . . future first lady. This is the end, For through the spell of the previous scenes You’ve journeyed back through the years And seen us growing from toddlers to teens. Perhaps you’ve felt in your heart a little sorrow. However, the best is still to come tomorrow. Never you fear, because remember, We love you the best of all. Three little words, Tonight we sing them our daddies to you. They’re only three little words To show a world of devotion to you. Of all those men in our lives you may be jealous. Forget about them, you’re still our fav’rite fellas. Three little words, nine little letters That simply spell, “We love you.” Sing-Dong Seniors, do you remember .. . Our first Sen- ior meeting in September . . . “I don’t feel any more like a Senior”... Confusion’ of the new girls, “Will somebody please tell me where Hill Manor is?” ... Tension of draw- ing for teams . . . “We must define our terms” ... “Society with a capital S” . . . Coughs in the lab after an aromatic experiment... “Alone, alone, all, all alone” ... Mlle’s sar- castic, “Flash!” . . . “Mimi, Clark, Cooper, Gay” ... “Who is the next lucky winnah?” ... “En francais? Non, en javanais!” .. . “Honi soit qui mal y pense” .. . The line of time . . . “We did that in Seven when you were hibernating” . . . “Ladies, you're flat- think up!” ... “Are we on Lower Field again?” ... Long, hard trudges up the hill, and vows to use our first millions for an es- calator . . . “Miss Eppley, my locker’s stuck” ... “Take it again on the 50 yard line” ... The Class of 1855 at the faculty-HAG volley- _1? ball game . . . “Thank goodness it’s Friday! . . . Scramble to prepare for Father-Daughter Day . . . Freshman Day, interesting varieties of fudge and the glee of those of us whose sisters were Freshmen .. . “On your knees, and DROP YOUR BOOKS!” ... “I have the new Honor list” . . . “Who ate all the cookies?” . . . “What’s for assembly?” . “Can somebody open the Pound?” . . “Lunch list changed yet?” . . . “Who’s that MAN in the office?” . . . Battles with the bees during picnic lunches . . . “There will be a meeting in Miss Johnson’s room immedi- ately after lunch and during Conference, and please hurry—it’s very important” . . . Orals —that sea of faces, and knocking knees . . Getting a toe into Junior Study Hall before the bell . . . Tea and coffee in Senior Meet- ——————————— ings ... The agony of four tests in as many days . . . Worn-through blouses and patched uniforms ... “Flub-a-dub,” our squeaky mas- cot at midyears . . . March crisis—College Boards and term papers... “I haven’t got time” .. . “I’m so tired” . . . “How much sleep did you get last night?” .. . “How’m I gonna get into any college?” . . . And then, “Who'll I take to graduation?” .. . “What color roses do you want?” ... All of a sud- den it’s here . . . Soon we'll be alumnae (pro- nounced ‘alumNEE’), and our days at Hills- dale will be over. But we’ll never, never for- get. 7m e CLASS ELEVEN — SECOND FIDDLES Hf ¥ First row: Natalie Bosworth, Nanci Hogan, Marcia Knoll, Christie Barnard, Liz Hammond, Cyrithia Taylor, Linda Lovett, Roberta Dunville. Second row: Carolyn Huwe, Nancy Berger, Jane Slemmer, Angie Schmidlapp, Helen Prettyman, Louise Atkins, Mary Hauser, Marianne Jordan, Garrie Blaine. Third row: Susie Boller, Kay Erbeck, Mary Sue Hannah, Sally Ranney, Carolyn Hummel, Lucky McCalmont, Carol Wachs, Linda Halverstadt, Patty Davis, Cecile Drackett, Bapbee Knauft. Absent: Sally Hodge. en rer” pas” a¥ 62 PL Pe, CLASS TEN — BRASS First row: Brent Randolph, Mary Jane Henning, Meanne Mashburn, Ann Wentworth, Christy Muir, Barbara Hixson. Second row: Jane Mills, Ann McComas, Marianne Hastie, Sally Hatfield, Debbie Gale, Susan Steman, Betsy Alexander, Judy Smysor, Betty Wiehe. Third row: Marion Strickland, Annie Gray, Dee Anne Schroeder, Mary Slade Martin, Elinor Scherr, Judy Hauser, Mary Ann Swedes, Toni LaBoiteaux, Patty Herron. Absent: Lynn Dunbar, (Jane Hauensteinj— — Margaret Parlin, Naomi Tucker. eons eee a LILA Kan ron a Ky, lS swe «© Yaus 444, y ee parr, oe : -. Sec Gow ow Sin. class is ° ° Axl G4“ xX ° ges Second row: Denny Tytus, Margo Frey, Ann Douglass, Ann Ritchey, Joan Barrett, Anita King, 7‘. J} r i 7 i fF 5 F Sd Betsy Benedict, Cindy Terrill, Betty Andrews. Third row: Eunice Davidson, Janie Bosworth,” ( Francie Garber, Barbara’ Hill, Margaret Simpson, Toni Gardner, Wendy Thomsen, Elinor Adick. Absent: Sallie Drackett, Ceci Pogue, Peggy Sadler. 4 CLASS EIGHT — FLUTES — ee re CLASS SEVEN — PICCOLOS First row: Pat Wilson, Sally Snow, Elizabeth Williams, Ann Minor, Susie Harrison, Heather Humphrey. Second row: Sally Davis, Ann Farwell, Sandra Rowe, Susan Deupree, Babsie Kruse, Susan Whitehouse, Judy Houk, Louise Barnard. Third row: Martha Thompson, Betsy Hastie, Linda Henning, Jenny Deupree, Lynn Lawwill, Jean Zimmerman, Nancy Rowe, Betsy White- sides, Nonnie Steer, Anne Thomson. Absent: Susan Crane, Betsy Dixon. Metronome = iN Xi Bal, I, TRE IE MOTD ARTS al TA ‘oO HILLSDALE SCHOOL © STUDENT COUNCIL Seated: Angie Schmidlapp, Vice President of Class 11; Jackie Pattison, Vice President of Class 12; Jane Hill, President of Class 12; Mary Sue Hannah, President of Class 11. Kneeling: Lee Adair, President of Class 9; Betty Andrews, Vice President of Class 9; Judy Smysor, President of Class 10; Annie Gray, Vice President of Class 10. Standing: Nancy Rowe, Vice President of Class 7, first semester; Patricia St. Leger-Barter, Vice President of Class 8; Kit Atkinson, Presi- dent of Class 8. Absent: Betsy Dixon, President of Class 7, first semester; Nonnie Steer, Presi- dent of Class 7, second semester; Sandra Rowe, Vice President of Class 7, second semester. SIS, CR OoCX Cong MN 4 Q im the 22 v 122 © C UL POQRS ExlO Sac be Soee ry QR ‘ M™MmM anknb O. 5 D Can Man Xe vy as - = . QL¥K@rn 3 C AA. COUNCIL Seated: Judy Houk, Class 7, first semester; Kit Nichols, Class 8; Sally Klein, President; Linda Henning, Class 7, first semester; Sally Harrison, Class 8. Kneeling: Denny Tytus, Assistant Green Team Captain; Christy Muir, Class 10; Janie Bosworth, Class 9; Brent Randolph, Class 10; Anita King, Assistant Gold Team Captain. Standing: Mary Dryden, Green Team Captain; Barbee Knauft, Secretary-Treasurer; Lucky McCalmont, Class 11; Lynn Fry, Gold Team Captain. Absent: Heather Humphrey and Sally Davis, Class 7, second semester. ANNUAL BOARD Left to right: Louise Ritchey, Editor-in-Chief; Eleanor Vinke, Art Editor; Jill Hallerman, Business Manager; Julie Snow, Photography and Literary Editor; Jody Morgens, Literary Editor. “TATLER” STAFO First row: Susan Leonard, Assistant Editor; Betsy Benediet, Spoets Editor; Diddy Stitvedty| Edited: in-Chief; Ann Douglass, Business Manager; Janet Keys, Alt Editom Second tow; Baybara Hill, Feature Editor; Ceci Pogue, Assistant Art Editor. SA J : iN wee be ¢ QV oss ae 25 = = = oie S S) OFFICE MARSHAL “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, And the leopard shall lie down with the kid; And the calf and the young lion and the fatling together ; And a little child shall lead them.” Deck the halls with boughs of holly. ’Tis the season to be jolly. Don we now our gay apparel. Troll the ancient Yuletide carol. Love and joy come to you. And to you your wassail too. May God bless you, and send you a happy new year. May God send you a happy new year. God’s bright star o’er His head, Wise men three to Him led. Kneel they low by His bed. Lay their gifts before Him. Praise Him and adore Him. Myrrh is mine. It’s better perfume Breathes a life of gathering gloom, Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, Sealed in a stone cold tomb. Ha ee A ee aga _ ane a MRS. CLAUDE M. LOTSPEICH “sé . . . The uniqueness of her strength in teaching children and their parents lay not in the three R’s (essential as she knew them to be), but in the three M’s, manners, morals, and maturity.” . . . “To boisterous boys and giggling girls she was able to impart the poise that comes of deference and respect. She taught in subtle and telling ways that poise and power come through consideration of another’s views, apprecia- tion of his contribution, and commendation of his accomplishment.” .. . “In all things she sought to teach, not the acquisition of facts or knowledge, but . . . a share in society, a sense of stewardship, and a dedication of life.” DR. ROBERT J. NETTING, Minister of Immanuel Presbyterian Church Hill Breezes THE FALLING STAR A sudden flash, a soundless fall, And then [I’m not so sure at all I saw it slip across the sky, So bright, so warm, and yet so small. A whispered wish, a quiet sigh, I hesitate, I wonder why A light so far away should be So bright, so warm, and yet so small. An instant spark, a quiet spell, And now it’s gone, but I can tell I'll never see a thing so free, And yet so warm, and yet so small. ANNE GRAY—Class 10 THESE I HAVE LOVED The rustling wind through feathery green leaves; The smell of pines on a steamy hot day; Bright shining lights coming through the fog; The taste of cake when it is fresh and hot; The smell of print from a new spotless book; The crack of a fire as it smoulders on the hearth; The bitter tang of salt water fresh from the sea; The laugh of happy children as they play after school; The creak of boards as someone walks up above; The wail of the fog-horn as it warns ships away; Steam rising from a hot wet street; The scrape of the snow shovel clearing the path; The satisfaction in completing some hard task; The peal of bells calling from the tower; The whistle of a train hurrying away; The gust of wind left by a sweeping car; The smell of gas as it flows into the tank; Salted nuts fresh from the fire; The sizzle as grease hits a hot pan; The squeak of brand new leather boots; The fluttering as birds prepare for sleep; Bright new green grass announcing spring; Apples fresh and sweet from the tree; Sidewalks, hard, firm, and hot in’summer; Stars glittering from the stillness up above; These I have loved. MEANNE MASHBURN—Class 10 A DREAM I dream I am mounted; The animal shares My excitement And strides With the wind; Over waving yellow And rising green We fly, Together as one, Forgetting the past, Only remembering Eternity .. . On we fly With free hair and tears, On and on. MY EMPTY WORLD I am here Before my clear panes; It is the cold dark time When all life is death; Overhead hangs mourning gray; Down there the poor faded grass Lies spattered With bits of brown: And the graceful winding wall Protecting lifeless stalks Bowing to nature; Oh my tree, My beautiful tree With her buds Frozen and sad, I remember the cruel sun Coaxing them from slumber, And now they are gone; In my woods Those eerie branches Quivering in a threatening sky; My breath freezes On the glass, I rub a peep hole And stare At my empty world; This wind tears around Echoing through my lonely country; Frozen rain taps Here and there But my shelter protects me From its sting; Then silence .. . The air is still; I watch the gloom move on And behold a new horizon. JUDY HAUSER—Class 10 LOLLIPOP It was a little after four on an Indian summer afternoon in Hamster, West Virginia. A hot chubby fist was thrust upward, and two dull copper coins plunked upon the counter in front of Mr. Brower the good-natured proprietor of Brower’s Drugs and Dry Goods on Main just west of Eagle View. Negligently, flinging the cellophane wrapper of his Dum Dum on the floor, Myron Simmons trotted gaily toward the other end of the store. He lingered for a moment at the heavy screen door, reflectively experimenting with the door handle, turning it left and right. Decidedly the task required two hands; so without much hesitation the over-sized lollipop was crammed into the extremely small mouth. Outside, enveloped in the warm mid-afternoon sunshine, Myron paused to adjust the strap of his brown seersucker play suit, ignoring the curses of the man in blue overalls who had spilled a large can of paint on the sidewalk and the piercing shrieks of buxom Mrs. Bluegill declaring that she would not allow her intimidated spouse to re-enter the house until he shaved his mustache. With one-pointed concentration, as :f only he and the lollipop existed, no sun- shine, no paint, no mustache, Myron sauntered slowly on, the sprightly breeze ruf- fling his silky blond hair. So uncommonly clean was his full innocent face that the sullen, nondescript surroundings seemed to do him an injustice. Myron’s general demeanor reflected that imperturable disposition so often char- acteristic of pampered children, that sort of “cute” solemnity that adults readily speak up to, or down to. His clothes may have had something to do with it, too. The hole in the shoulder of his T-shirt was a “cute” hole. The excess material in the seat of his seersucker shorts, the excess length of the shorts themselves, were “cute” ex- cesses. Apparently unaware of the stout figure of Hector, the town menace, approaching in long, affected strides, Myron reached down to scratch his bare, untanned calf. The pockets of Hector’s faded blue jeans were bulging with over-ripe haw-apples he had snatched from the Mayor’s front yard. One by one they were hurled into the street at passing cars, seldom missing their mark. A triumphant smile lurked about the tight, narrow lips of Hector’s grimy face. Having exhausted this source of amusement, he twisted his face into a mysterious sort of grimace as if contemplating the next mischievous prank he would execute. Suddenly his gaze came to rest on young Myron, who was now vigorously gnawing at the hard surface of his sucker. Hector paused, took aim, and one scarlet apple flew toward the innocent. But fortunately he failed, for the missile whizzed by Myron’s blond head unnoticed, and ended its journey with a resounding thud as it struck a rickety black and white sign denoting a crosswalk. Indignant, but far from dis- possessed of his natural savagery, Hector proceeded to rip the sign from its post and fling it into the gutter nearby. Meanwhile, the door of Lillis Dress Shop opened, and a young woman came out pushing a baby carriage. She was a small, almost hipless girl with styleless, colorless, brittle hair pushed back behind her ears, which were very large. She was dressed in knee-length jeans, a turtle-neck pullover, socks and loafers. Apparently, she was look- ing for her son who had escaped while she had her attention momentarily fixed upon a “divine” gray print for only sixteen dollars. Heading in the direction of Myron’s favorite refuge, the drug store, the young mother noticed in the distance a small shape stooped down upon the sidewalk. Myron had dropped his lollipop! Grasping it firmly in his sticky paw, he popped it back into his mouth and turned to cross the street. Almost simultaneously, Hector had viewed an object of interest on the other side of the street and had decided to cross also. He darted inadvertently past Myron, who was now Intent upon savoring the soft, tootsie roll center of his Dum Dum. As if by instinct Hector glanced over his shoulder when he reached the opposite curb, just as Myron advanced beyond two parked cars. The droning of a racing motor . . . a woman’s wail . . . Hector’s heart was suddenly seized by a force so strong that it impelled him forward to save the child. The screeching of brakes... a low whimper . . . Then all was still, except for one over-ripe haw-apple, rolling very slowly over the warm pavement. But even that soon came to rest near a green and white striped lollipop. ARLENE SCHROEDER—Class 12 A QUESTION How can a fly Climb up a wall When he has nothing To help him at all, No ladders, no steps, No paste from a jar, No sticky molasses Or gooey black tar? He does it so quickly, But I wonder why, To get where he’s going That he doesn’t fly! CHRISTIE BARNARD—Class 11 GARNO In an attempt to forget the maze of filth and squalor which lay below him, Garno lifted his eyes once again toward the sky. As he gazed into its vast expanse from his perch atop the grimy building, the oppressive ugliness about him ceased to matter. Capricious clouds flirted with the wind, and his young fresh mind rejoiced. For a moment only, truth and beauty were his. Then the sharp, frenzied shrieks of the pigs in the slaughterhouse below jarred him from his reverie. Looking in the direction from which the sounds had come, he saw the squat figure of a blood-soaked, sweat-drenched man. The man’s expression was not a pleasant one to behold, as he glared up belligerently at Garno. The volley of curses that issued forth from the distant figure was startling, but Garno’s only reaction was to look away. He sat for a long time without moving. The stench which arose from the nearby stockyard was overpowering, but Garno scarcely noticed it. His mind was absorbed with a thousand questions to which he could never find answers, no matter how hard he sought and wondered. His search was one for everything good, for everything he had not yet known in his short life. It was a search for love, beauty, truth and wis- dom in a world of misery and ugliness. As Garno sat absorbed in thought, the clouds which had been so playful only a short while before swept down about the earth, obliterating the sky in a blanket of impenetrable grayness. A ponderous raindrop spattered on Garno’s forehead, and he became aware of the nervous, energetic wind which heralds the coming of a storm. He jumped to his feet, but stopped suddenly, groping with his hand in his back pocket. Yes, it was all there—fourteen pennies and one shiny nickel. Reassured, Garno deftly made his way down the ladder which led to the stockyard below. No sooner had he reached the ground than the rain began to slant and swirl. When he arrived home, he was thoroughly drenched. Garno’s mother, a hard-working, robust woman with a look of resignation in her careworn eyes, was slumped in a chair when he entered the cold water flat. So pre- occupied was she with the group of noisy children that surrounded her that she did not notice the arrival of her eldest son. Garno went silently into an adjoining room which he shared with his brothers and sisters. From a window he surveyed the rain- washed world, and his eyes fastened upon a rusty fire-escape which rattled in the wind a few feet away. There was nothing of beauty to relieve the unchanging ugliness of the scene; even the sky, which had been so fresh and beautiful only recently, had become bleak and somber. During the next few days at school, Garno was unable to concentrate upon his work. In fact, he was so much aware of the money in his pocket that he could think of nothing else. He felt a constant need to look at it, to feel it, to reassure himself of its existence. Finally, on Thursday, he could bear it no longer. He pulled the money from his pocket and slowly opened his clenched fist. In it lay fourteen pennies, one shiny nickel, and three quarters. The bell rang. School was over at last! Garno had a definite destination in mind as he hurried from the schoolyard out to the pavement. Suddenly he felt a heavy hand descend upon his shoulder. He whirled around, looking up into the scowling face of the class bully, Bert O’Toole. “Uh oh,” thought Garno, “here comes trouble.” He was right. In a self-confident, wheedling tone Bert began, “Hey, Garno, whatcha doin’ with all that dough? Ya didn’t think nobody saw ya, did ya, wise guy? Well, I did, see, and I want all ya got. Hand it over like a good little boy.” Garno was torn between two fears—the fear of losing his money, and fear of Bert. He decided that keeping his money was well worth a bloody nose, so he replied, “Look, Bert, that money’s mine, and I won’t let you have it. Go away and leave me alone.” Unaccustomed as Bert was to such an answer from a smaller boy, his reaction was swift and immediate. He smashed his fist into Garno’s face, sending him reeling to the ground. Garno could not move. After what seemed to him to be a very long time, he became aware of a group of faces peering at him from above. Slowly, fight- ing the dizziness which threatened to overcome him, he struggled to his feet, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked at Bert for a moment, then struck at him with all the strength he could muster. The fight which ensued was one of brute strength against speed and efficiency. The opponents were evenly matched, and the onlookers were in suspense about the winner. . But there was to be no decisive victory, for Bert became frightened, bully that he was, by the arrival of a group of older boys. Completely abashed by their appearance, he grinned sheepishly, and Garno took this opportunity to leave. As he set out toward the shopping district, he was almost afraid to examine his pockets, fearing that his money had been lost during the struggle—the very money for which he had gone without lunch for three consecutive days. He shoved his swol- len hand into the hip pocket of his dungarees, and brough out a handful of coins. Yes, all of his money was there, and now he was going to spend it! Entering a shop, Garno quickly found what he wanted and paid for it proudly. Hurrying home, he rushed into his room, opened his package, and placed its contents on the fire-escape just outside the window. He stood back and gazed at it with ad- miration. The bright red and green of the geranium plant stood out brilliantly against the monotonous background. How colorful and gay it looked! His heart bursting with joy, Garno yelled, “Hey, Mom, come and see!” SYLVIA FREY—Class 12 e boo 2 at. ¥ 60 THE FIFTEENTH ANGEL No one actually knew where Little Lizzie came from, but one day during the festiv- ities of Christmas, she was just there. Her appearance happened to take place in the Church of Saint Joseph, one of the country’s largest Protestant churches, on Fifth Avenue in New York. It also happened to be an afternoon when the traditional Chil- dren’s Christmas Choir was rehearsing. Rev. Manning, pastor of the church, was listening attentively to the rehearsal, his thoughts absorbed in the subject of Lin Peters, director of the choir, and his remarkable management of the children. There was no doubt about it, Lin was a well-respected man, both of his church and of his business. It was surprising that he had not married, for, at twenty-eight, he was al- ready a fine, upright citizen who contributed much to everything in which he took part. And he had done wonders with the choir. Saint Joseph was indeed fortunate to have such a talented member. It was then that he noticed her, a forlorn, bedraggled waif of six or seven, standing paralyzed at the foot of the altar, her head uplifted in ecstasy, her eyes wide with wonder at the sight which she beheld. Her thin body was clothed in colorless rags, and her hollow face accentuated the large eyes which radiated a feeling of rapture and a warm gaze of anticipation. Only one distinction withheld the clergyman from snatching her up and placing her at the head of the choir. Little Lizzie’s skin was black. Later on that afternoon, at the close of the meeting of the church trustees, the minister tinkered with the idea of proposing he admission of Little Lizzie into the choir. Some of the important figures of the church, he knew, would be appalled at the mere mention of such an unconventional idea. But her look was so appealing that he could not put her out of his mind. He chose his words carefully as he prepared to introduce his painfully delicate subject to the Board of Managers of his church. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry that all are not present, because I wish to ex- press a thought which has been bothering me. This afternoon a Negro child wandered into the church during the Children’s Choir rehearsal. I know nothing of her back- ground, but her wistful gaze told me that she longed to sing with the choir. I hope you will all think this matter through, and I ask you to remember, before forming your decision, that in God’s eyes we are all equal. Thank you.” % % ‘“‘What a preposterous idea! Henry! Oh Henry, where in heaven’s name are you?” an outraged voice demanded. The voice came from the corseted interior of a haughty and furious dowager. As she stormed into the house, howling for her timid husband, she glowered with nasty sourness. She was the Mrs. Thenauld, the most acclaimed and respected member (in her opinion) of Saint Joseph’s Church, for was she not the largest donor to the church and its charities? After all the money she had given to those shiftless, ungrateful Negroes, they demanded that one of their kind be al- lowed to join the sacred Children’s Choir. The idea! To pollute those dear children, to expose them to such an unnecessary experience, by admitting a dirty, ragged Negro. All those darling little boys and girls . . . That reminded her, she simply must obtain a list of the new members of the choir to send invitations to their parents to attend her annual ball. % As Midge Johnson drove through the five-thirty traffic of New York City, she pondered the words which the minister had spoken earlier that afternoon. Would Little Lizzie fit into the setting of holiness? Somehow she could not picture one dark face protruding from a cloud of snowy white ones. It would have damaging effects on the church, she thought unhappily. The Merksons, fine people, but born and raised in the South, would be the first to withdraw. So would the Jacksons and the McDaniels. Well, she would discuss it with Jim later on, Let’s see now, weren’t there some green beans in the freezer this morning? As Lin Peters pressed the elevator button, his thoughts were deeply concerned with the discussion of the trustees that afternoon. He was sure that they would reject the idea. It was evident from their expressions the minute the subject was introduced by Rev. Manning, and all because Little Lizzie had dark skin. What was wrong with these freedom-loving Americans that they condemned a child simply because she had black skin? Why did this injustice continue? Why must he, Lin Peters, go through life behind a mask of white skin, denying the very blood that gave him his deep love of music? Wouldn’t “all men equal” believers be shocked to learn his secret; that a Negro was a respected member of their church; that a Negro had eaten with them in their homes; that a Negro had even entertained them in his own home; that a Negro was a director of their own children’s choir into which they would not admit another child only because her skin was black? Nothing more was said about Little Lizzie, and the clergyman did not press the subject any further. She continued to appear at every rehearsal, that longing look always on her face. And then the big night arrived. Hurrying to complete his last- minute duties, Rev. Manning strode towards the dressing room. As he passed the spot where Little Lizzie had often sat gazing wistfully at the choir, he noticed with a pang that his favorite cherub was missing. Moving on to the dressing room, he saw her there, huddled in a corner, sobbing as though her heart would break. He was about to go to her when Mrs. Meriweather rushed up to him, exclaiming in a most excited tone, “Oh, Mr. Manning, what on earth are we going to do? Marty Brown has just been rushed to the hospital with an appendicitis attack. We must have fifteen children, and no extra has been trained for the part.” And then the miracle began. People have long talked of that performance of the Children’s Choir. The church was filled long before eight o’clock. As the lights dimmed, announcing the beginning of the service, silence as dark and soft as a cloud settled over the expectant congrega- tion. Then, slowly, calmly, one gleam of light unfolded a path, as the minister walked towards the center of the stage, candle in hand, and began to read the story of the birth of Christ. Then he silently sat down, extinguishing his candle. Two tiny figures, each with a candle, approached from either side of the stage. Heavenly voices echoed through the air singing “Silent Night, Holy Night.” The two cherubs floated up an unseen stairway, lighting their candles in their flight, each moving towards what was to be a crown of little cherubs. As each candle was illuminated, a chubby, rosy- cheeked face could be seen behind it, its mouth cupped in a bow, gloriously singing praises to God. The music possessed a mysterious quality which had a strange, mysti- cal effect on the listeners. Somehow, they all knew what had happened, and yet it did not matter anymore. Midge Johnson felt a sudden surge of relief, as did many others. Suddenly, the Annual Ball lost its importance to Mrs. Thenauld, and she wondered why society had ever meant so much to her in the past. And Lin Peters? Lin Peters hid his face as a deep feeling of shame seeped through every vein in his body. The Miracle was mostly for Lin, for now he had the courage to face the world with- out his mask. But he did not know that Reverend Manning had guessed his secret long ago. Thus the cherubs, reaching the summit, took their places and lighted the last can- dle. The children, one by one, had stopped singing, and had turned in the direction of the fifteenth candle. There, in complete paradise, her face shining, her brown eyes brimming with tears of joy, and her voice full of radiance, stood Little Lizzie. SUSIE BOLLER—Class I] IS ROOSHIAN INVENTION Yesterday upon the chair There sat an orbit that wasn’t there. He wasn’t there “cause he’d lost his way. I wish to thunder he’d go away. Orbits and atoms cling hand in hand, Together by an invisible band. These atoms have centers with orbits around, In which our friends, the electrons, are found. 6| Often you'll find that malcontents Can’t abide being bounded by a fence. They sputter and squirm till they fight their way To the outermost edge, and there they stay. In the outer orbit thus we find Vagabonds of many a kind, Chafing to try where the grass is greener, Security greater, and atmosphere cleaner. Meet comrade atoms “A” and “B”. They like coexistence, peacefully, So outer orbits they swap at will. Some orbits they empty and some they fill. If of electrons an orbit has one, And then loses that, why, what has he done? He’s liquidated himself; he’s gone; What good is an orbit without his electron? And so, through the greed of Comrade B, We meet an everyday tragedy. And now you should see, upon the chair, The poor little orbit that wasn’t there. JULIE SNOW—Class 12 ON OBSERVING AN INERT AMOEBA Mr. Amoeba, pardon me; I don’t mean to intrude. I know I’ve spoiled your privacy, But please don’t be so rude. When I look through my microscope To see what I can see, Why, you just stretch your pseudopods, And look right back at me. She said to watch you move, and I Have tried and tried and tried, But you just blink your nucleus And sit there, on my slide. I know you're bored, but so am I. Mine is a sadder story; Can you imagine sitting through Three bells of laboratory? If you will wiggle just a bit, Then I shall be content. I never knew one cell could be So doggoned insolent. LOUISE RITCHEY—Class 12 EMBARKATION That last night of shore leave had been a good one. Many of the boys had gotten together for an imperial pint over whose foam they had had a fine chat, some up- roarious jokes, and in general a jovial, rollicking time. This morning they still re- tained some of the excess of their fun and punmaking spirits and chuckled now and then as they gathered at the docks and made remarks reminiscent of their three day stay in New York. Before long the recurring theme of the pier, which is repeated day after day with slight variation, commenced in full once again, and shortly the tempo was quickened and sharpened to staccato. People jumped from taxis and ascended to the second floor of the long building which was at right angles to the shoreline and beside which was the ship. Here on the second floor was the main theme carried out in its entirety. Travelers were distinguished and classified by their multitudinous luggage of all types—of highly polished leather, worn and scratched leather, canvas any synthetic materials, shaped into trunks, overnight bags, footlockers, wardrobe trunks, et ainsi de suite. Heels clicked along rapidly, sometimes uncertainly and with a scraping step as a piece of baggage slipped and pulled its carrier off balance, while the tread of heavy shoes added a duller tone. The steps were going in the same direction and became more centralized as they neared the queue not far from the gang- plank. Weight shifted from foot to impatient foot as the line slowly passed the box- like office where two officials checked the validity of passports and steamship tickets, and then with a little difficulty the feet mounted the sloping ramp, halting briefly at the top. To the seasoned voyager the scene was not so striking, but to the uninitiated it was bewildering and exciting. Men in whites stood near this entrance, ready to help and give directions for proceeding to the assigned staterooms on any of the several decks. The lower decks called C and D were for the crew, the engine rooms, and also the gym; B had small rooms with double-decker beds and little spare space, and above this was R or Restaurant deck with cabins fore and aft, and two immense dining rooms with the kitchens in between; then A deck and more cabins; M or Main deck with the purser’s office and various small dress, jewelry and beauty shops; Promenade deck with port and starboard lined with reclining deck chairs but with room for four abreast to walk up and down the ship, and inside a lounge, writing room and movie theater. The embarking deck was A, and the passengers stepped from the lobby into two narrow passageways attempting to stretch the length of the ship, but forced to jog abruptly at several points. Off these main passageways were short sections like branches from a tree trunk, and these opened into a stateroom on either side. By eleven o’clock orders had become more crisp and definite, and by twelve all was ready. The gangplank was removed from the ship’s edge and mechanically laid down inside the building. The throaty whistle gasped mightily sev eral times, and the deafening roar reverberated among the skyscrapers, while the last of the ropes were cast off, and the tugs exhaled more black smoke as they struggled and strained their cables trying to move their huge companion. The R.M.S. “Caronia” moved inch by inch away from the land, the last of the ribbons of confetti breaking as she be- gan to slip into the main waters of the river, and the frantic waving continued for the few minutes while she slid past the pier. The outline of the sky-reaching symbols of modern civilization filed silently by. The Lady of the Lamp was neared—that immortal spirit lifting high her ideals and radiating courage to all who live under the Great Hand. As the ship moved steadily on toward the deeps, the colossal city sank below the horizon and the vessel was abandoned to the whim of the winds and the high seas. JACKIE PATTISON—Class 12 THE PILGRIM The man stood on a small, rather grassy hill overlooking the sand. He was dressed in a heavy, dark cape which was pulled tightly around him, for the night was chilly. ittle gusts of wind which came from the sea blew the cape as if to wrest it from the an. The night was quite dark, saving the moon, which shone down on the water, making a golden path through the waves. He was looking toward the East, and think- ing of the home back in England which he had left about two years ago. Only two years? It seemed like a lifetime. Certainly, events had happened during those two years which would be enough for any one person during his lifetime. He remembered his life in England. He saw again the English countryside, his home, the small parish of which he was minister, and the congregation, which was made up of h is neighbors. He recalled how he had come to the conclusion that the church had faults, how he had grown more disbelieving, and how it had shown in his sermons at the small parish. Finally he remembered how the church authorities had come to visit him, for they had heard rumors about his sermons. They mentioned something about a group of people who called themselves Pilgrims. These Pilgrims, it seemed, were dissatisfied with the Church of England and had broken away. This was the first the minister had heard that anybody else shared his sentiments. The next day, he remembered, he had started off to find those people called the Pilgrims to see if he and they shared the same feelings about the church. He had met these men and women whom he was destined to know and love as dear friends within the next two years. He had talked with them and found that they also felt as he did about the church, and remembered how he had left them, feeling exalted. Then he thought about the day he had heard that the Pilgrims had sailed to Holland, and how he, after giving much thought to the subject, had finally saved enough money to follow them. He remembered also how he had taken the final step; he had resigned and boarded a ship for Holland. There he had looked up the Pilgrims, and had found them disliking Holland and yearning to go to a land of their own, or at least to an English-speaking country. Finally they had decided to go to America to settle in Virginia, near the first settlers. How many times, he recalled, had he almost regretted that decision. He felt again the roll of the ship beneath his feet, and seemed to see again the close quarters and the many people packed into small places. He relived again the terrifying experience of a storm at sea, when every tremble and jar of the ship seemed to foretell instant death, and heard again the wail of the wind, and the scream of a man washed over- board and the despairing sobs of his widow and children. But, where there is death there is also new life. The children born on the ship provided amusement, and pre- vented the widow from thinking too much about her late husband. Other men did her husband’s work for her, and the other women helped her with her chores and comforted her. Then the man on the hill remembered how the ship had finally come into sight of land after a very heavy storm, and his sharp pang of disappointment; he had imagined a lovely green land where wild vegetables and fruits grew, and here was only a bleak, windswept shore. But his disappointment was lost in a moment; he felt so happy and capable of undertaking any task, for they had finally reached their land and could worship God as they wished. And as for the land, he could already envision splendid crops ready to be harvested, and warm, strong houses made from the trees, which grew in abundance. But such hard work to make this dream come true! Yet what splendid results! And then he remembered yesterday’s great Thanks- giving feast, when they had all given thanks to God for bringing them to this land, and giving them food, and keeping them well. And the man thought again of what he had to be thankful for. Then, all of a sudden he came out of his reverie, and seemed to realize his surroundings. He looked again toward Englana, thinking of the many people back there, wondering if any of them would brave the sea and conquer an unknown wilderness for their ideals. But then he turned away, and looked toward the still untamed wilderness. The future spread before him like a long road, waiting for him to take his first step. He began to walk slowly in the dark toward his small house. SUSAN LEONARD—Class 9 IT HAPPENED SUDDENLY All of a sudden it had happened, and he had sworn that it never would. Yes, at last he had fallen in love. She was all frills and sunshine; a dream girl of twelve years. He had met her at a party, and had simply been bowled over by her loveliness. She had worn a light blue dress with a pink sash, and tiny pink shoes. He had danced with her only twice, but that was enough for him to realize that she was wonderful. He had crawled into bed with dreams about his fluffy discovery. The next morning, he decided he needed some masculine advice. Cornering his father, and feeling very grown up, he began importantly, “Dad, I’m in love!” “You don’t say, son! Well tell me about her.” “Well, there’s nothin’ much to tell, really, except she’s just . . . well, she’s just wonderful! I knew it the minute I saw her.” “Hmmmm—now I know why you didn’t eat your breakfast this morning.” “Awwww—I just wasn’t hungry. But anyway, Dad, I thought I might go over and see her today.” “Why, I think that would be very fine, Tim; I’m sure she’d like that very much.” Feeling hopeful and happy, Tim jumped on his bike and rode furiously to visit his best girl. Bashfully he walked up to the front door, turning bright red on the way. He had heard a little scream and a shuffling noise inside, but he was too high on a cloud to think anything of it. Mrs. Hancock answered the door. “Hello,” she said, “Why, you must be Timmy Young. Janie has told me so much about you! Please come in.” “H’lo. Is Janie home?” “Yes Timmy, sit down. I’ll call her.” A few minutes later (it had seemed like hours) Janie came demurely downstairs. “Hi, Timmy.” “H-h-hello, Janie. I was riding around on my bike, so I thought I’d drop in to s-see you. “T’m glad you did. How did you like the dance last night?” ““Awww—it was pretty fair, as far as dances go, but who likes dances?” “Oh, I do! I think they’re lots of fun!” Lost for words, they sat for a moment, each trying very hard to think of some- thing to say. Timmy was thinking how pretty she looked, even in the afternoon, and Janie was thinking how much he looked like her favorite movie star, Robert Taylor. At last the silence was broken by Mrs. Hancock’s offering each of them a coke. Con- versation was started once more, and they discussed such things as baseball, cow. boys, bicycles, dances, and airplanes. The afternon passed very quickly, and before he knew it, Timmy had to leave. “Thank you very much, Janie. I had a wonderful time! “Bye.” “T’m glad you came over. Bye.” Dreamily he rode home, thinking of the heavenly afternoon he had just spent. Dinner passed quite unusually, for Timmy talked much and ate little. After dinner he again took advantage of his indeed convenient father, and asked rather sheepishly, “Dad, do you think it would be all right if I called her?” “Call her?—Oh, yes,—well Tim, haven’t you seen quite a bit of her today?” “Yes, but I just have to hear her voice before I go to bed.” “Suit yourself. [’m sure it’s okay by me!” “Gee, Dad! You’re swell!” He rushed upstairs and clumsily dialed her number. “H-h-hello? Janie?” “Hi, Timmy.” “I-I just wanted to call and say hello.” “Did you really?” “Well, I guess (’d better go now. It’s getting pretty late.” “Yes, it is. Good night, Timmy.” “Good night.” Placing the receiver back on the hook, he sat there for a moment. Life had never been so wonderful as it was now. He wondered how he could ever have disliked girls, as slowly he crawled into bed. Very soon Mr. Sandman caught up with him, and once more his dreams were filled with a smiling little girl in a fluffy blue dress with a pink sash. HELEN PRETTYMAN—Class 11 YOU ARE HERE! What kind of a day is it?—a day like all days. Everything is as it always is, ex- cept; you are here! The scene is the Glendale bus on a rainy Monday morning. You find yourself rather unfortunate to be boarding this bus at the corner of Congress and Fountain, for when it finally comes over the hill, you are drenched from head to toe from stand- ing in the rain. This can be remedied by wearing your boots and not forgetting that umbrella the next time! As you climb aboard, you nod your head to Lanny, the ever-patient, much-to-be- pitied bus driver, and slowly make your way to the rear of the bus. This is where the commodores, the Seniors, have assigned you a seat, and you have-given up the protest long ago. You find your comrades in their usual quarters; at least, they’re your comrades until you discover they have not saved you a seat! At this moment, the bus lurches, and you are thrown into the lap of a sleepy ensign who is attempting to make a stencil for the “Tatler.” Thanks to the dear bus, she has only succeeded in making a few crooked lines. Wearily she moves over, and you squeeze onto the back seat. Now that you are comfortably seated, in spite of your sticky raincoat, you are jabbed in the arm by one of your more energetic friends who has taken the pains to read the sports page this morning. She gives you a full report of the Mohawks’ latest game against Troy, complete with pictures and newspaper clippings. You are a little curious about all this enthusiasm until you read in bold letters, on her science book, “Drool for Goold.” Now your mind is at ease—but not for long. From another corner come the flowing strains of “Courtin’ In the Rain.” This is the theme song of the daily hillbilly show presented for the entertainment of your end of the bus by two very talented ensigns. They have other numbers in their reper- tory, but this is their specialty. You admit you aren’t convinced about the entertain- ment part of it, but it does screen some of the noise coming from the center of the bus. This is where the “Lotspeich Pests” engage in their daily battles in the center aisle. You find your seat to be right in the line of action until, of course, the action ceases. Wondering at the source of the sudden discipline, you gaze towards the front of the bus. There very sedately sit your superiors, ruling the roost, and calmly dis- cussing the events of the week-end; the date who didn’t show up, and the inconsid- erate boy who sent the wrong flowers for your dress. Suddenly all books go sliding to the floor, and everyone rushes to the window to wave to Grandpa. As the name implies, Grandpa is an elderly man. He has a smil- ing face and a heavy-set figure. Waving to him is part of every morning’s routine. Then come the final “hic, haec, hoc,’ and the closing chords of “Oop-Shoop!” The bus stops before a rambling gray building bearing the name “Hillsdale School.” Thus ends another page in the diary of the Glendale bus, and—you were there! LEE ADAIR—Class 9 A 7aylor-made YEARBOOK Taytor Yearsook Company-DALtas yy REM echt eM aaah iis ithe ‘Seu D) a Cane 7 rs ate “ps gee = ae SILL ABAV ABBE VEE, 5 SO ee eS eee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee wet eee) pee Soe ee ee oe See) SS ee TN eran i 25 Saat _ =] Tate Li i] JF 7 oust es Pd p- Sees Frce enna Be ree ae ses ee. 8, Re ee as Sees Sete eS gta a one Psa BS Noss 3 OSS aba enter lve - SS = ese See == Es SSS SSNS s = ees as OT et Re ea a ee al SS SS : x Sires =e | : : g | - . SS ™ om Vie. Leap en nomtnny Se A See = Pope es c ee Soe . 2 S (SS