Lake Stevens High School - Pilchuck Yearbook (Lake Stevens, WA)

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CLASS PROPHECY — Continued talking about. As I heard the hot jive streaming forth I could not miss this chance to see the rest of my old friends. Upon entering, I bumped into Miss Ruthford, dressed as a charming southern belle. She gaily tripped over to me and greeted me but as everyone was anxiously trying to get a dance with her, now a very famous art instructor, I was soon left alone. The band increased their volume while page boy Jesse Adams called out the entry of Miss Doney Balmer, who floated onto the dance floor like a sky-blue cloud. I gazed at her exquisite loveliness while she danced by with a handsome lad, King of the Jungles, ' Jim Mitchell. They threw over a cheery salute and they too were soon on their way. Before I could begin to marvel at the gorgeous halls surrounding me, it was intermission and the floor show was just beginning. Through the curtains and out on the stage like a jack in the box was the master of ceremonies, Virgil Pruehs, announcing the numbers. He disap- peared as quickly as he appeared. The curtain is now going up—zoom!! bringing forth to you the modern Zorina, otherwise known as Margaret Grubb. Her intricate routine carefully mastered from years of skillful training brought many envious spar- kles into the eyes of the hushed audience. Soft music floating over the stage now commanded my attention while a quartette composed of Lois Elsbree, Gladys Akers, June Taylor, and Doris Wolf sang a few incomparable numbers. In the spotlight now is the greatest, most elegant opera star of the season, Clarence Dionne, singing his version of Jungle Love. After singing several en- cores he withdrew from the stage. Bang! Crash! Boom! A horrible racket is audible! What is about to happen next? A meek How do you do? floats through the air. Later, introducing himself, we find it is Fred Taro with his teammate, Hazel Samson, doing the latest Jungle dances, or, just plain jitterbugging. As all good perform- ances must come to an end, so did theirs. Reopening the curtains again we come upon a gorgeous outline of a beautiful enchanting lake. Dreamily a lazy sailboat floats atop the ripples while the music from a magic accordion, played by Elsie Nygren, passes into the distance—as Shirley Armstrong and her life partner, Wallace Erickson, sing one of their most famous duets. Like a creaking joint the curtain slowly descended upon the stage, once more bringing one of the most successful floor shows to a close. Blinking my eyes and stretching, I peered outside. I knew I could not remain and struggle with any more dances. Strains of Carry Me Back to Old Lake Stevens echoed through the dance hall as the orchestra leader, Arthur Jitterjive Ulrich, laboriously swings his mighty baton. With a feather-like touch of my finger tip I found myself once more on the outside glancing in. A soft rustling of the leaves momentarily halted me, but as my courage was quickly returning I again ventured forth. This time some object softly brushed across my face. In frantic fear I re- treated and as I glanced around I found myself in a huge, gigantic circle. I amaz- ingly scanned about me. A brilliant light beamed on me. Like a shadow I followed this mysterious spotlight as it steadily and slowly halted on two illuminated objects

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CLASS WILL — Continued Floyd Peterson leaves his quiet ways to Leonard Honeycutt; Madalyn Peterson, her knowledge of Home Economics to Ida Hays; Virgil Pruehs, his good scholarship to Chuck Conrad; Bonnie Ruthford, her mysterious secret of overcoming obstacles to Kathleen Taro: Hazel Samson, her congenial manner to Marcia Muzzall; Walter Smith wills his sunny disposition to Harold Anderson, Fred Taro leaves his musical ability to Anders Jacobsen; June Taylor, her bash- fulness to Lois Van Iderstine; Maxine Taylor, her technique of being able to do two things at once to Betty Lou Durham; Arthur Ulrich, his height to Raymond Ander- son; Helen Williams leaves her tinyness and that certain way about her to Barbara Tedford; Doris Wolf, her golden silence to Frances Haverfield; Herbert Hunt leaves his ability to become easily acquainted to Mern Hegge. We, the class of 1942, in witness thereof, do hereby, on this second day of June in the year of 1942, set our seal to this, our last will and testament. Signed: SENIORS OF 1942. CLASS PROPHECY Roaring drums were approaching closer and closer until I could feel the violent vibration of them—I grew panicky! The beating of my heart was rhythmically keep- ing up with these horrible drums; it felt as though it would burst! A chill ran up my vertebrae like a tickling feather; the second chill pivoted me around to face a huge monstrous person who bellowed for me to bow in his presence. I did as he commanded. As he was stooping over to get a better glance at me, his mask fell off. Why, Newell Dana! He then explained his position as the talkie from Mil- waukee on his vacation here. He was, he informed me, on his way to a masquerade ball, the highlight of the evening, so I bade him farewell and again resumed my journey. Finally, in a breathtaking instant, a human voice echoed. Again it came, and again, but I could not detect the spot where this familiar noise was coming from. Quicker than I could say Oh, three little Jungle Maidens, Lillian Nelson, Margaret Melchoir and Maxine Taylor, were before me. I learned that they were the champion hog callers of the district and were leading the entrance for—why I can hardly be- lieve my eyes—Wayne Bettinger. I then remembered Wayne's telling me about his sudden whim to come here. As you see, it is an excellent location for basketball and, of course, he is assistant coach to Kenny Espeseth, who teaches those little darkies to be sparkies in basketball. I begged him to get Kenny here so we could ex- change greetings. Taking a small pin-size horn from his pocket, he drew it to his lips. Immediately an unearthly noise burst forth upon the arrival of Coach Espie. As the night drew upon us, and as our conversation was slackening a bit, I again started on my way. Suddenly, looming up from nowhere, was a huge neon sign with the bright scarlet letters spelling The Jungle. This must be the dance hall that everyone was

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CLASS PROPHECY - Continued atop a huge fir tree—aerial acrobats! Gracefully gliding through the air, it was then that I noticed who it was. Radiant, faces aglow—like gold dust they fell from the trees to stand before me—yes. you've probably guessed who it is—Helen and Gwen! ! Turning I again fled. What was this jungle, a little world all its own? Pondering over this question in a dizzy-like stupor I stumbled vainly on. I say stumbled because the next minute I stumbled into a huge pit—a trap!! I wondered if this was just another trick or if this time it was the real thing. I could feel myself being slowly devoured. Hideous laughter came from out of a clear sky—very faint, now booming forth. Slowly tipping my head upward, I gazed into a pair of starry blue eyes. Staring at me he winked, reviving my courage. He then threw down a thin thread- like vine which I eagerly caught and proceeded to climb. Reaching the top he again turned into a hideous figure, it was now my turn to stare! Picking me up like a feather he boosted me upon his shoulders while he climbed an enormous tree. About half-way up I noticed some object—a tree house. From the door of this quaint little house, two shy little women came forth. After urging them into the conversation I found out quite enough—the two wives, Helen Neely and Madalyn Peterson, of Leonard The Historian Cooper, who was doing research work for a famous library. They invited me to sup with them, which I did, admitting I was nearly famished. As I politely made my departure a troupe of elaborately dressed little cannibals appeared. Bringing forth a tiny pitch pipe, the leader proceeded to get the tune, then they warbled a song. As they were gently singing they slowly took off their masks and one by one they appeared once more their natural selves—Herbert Hunt, Floyd Peterson, Bob Hebert, Lawrence Erickson, Art Makus and their director, Walter Smith. A jolly group but I must be leaving. Wearily I crep into the jungle depth—it must be about midnight. As I peered around the next tree, two statues loomed up in front of me, guarding an entrance. I reached out to touch'one: I'll have to admit, they looked real! Before I could question them further they had vanished, leaving two little slips of paper. Why! they are calling cards. I can hardly make this one out. Let's see—L-e-l—why Leland Johnson! Chief observer for the Dunduppie Fly Works. This next card is more legible—Ray !ten, Cannibal No. I. Goodness, now I am absolutely exhausted. My eyelids were like little balls of lead, but I had to keep moving: I could not rest. I kept saying it over and over again. Monotonously it pounded upon my brain like a record. Shadows were creeping over the jungles and now it was twilight— twilight in the jungles, something I had always wanted to see. Strange noises came from the animals, the birds were twittering, as the sun finally peeked its golden head over the top of a huge tree. My exhausted body collapsed upon the ground, and in those moments I recalled a memorable day—December 7, 1942, when I was but a senior in high school, but now that has been forgotten and I have once more seen my old friends.