Louise S McGehee School - Spectator Yearbook (New Orleans, LA)

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Thirty-eight The Spectator Happy are those Climbing the sky ' Laughing, shouting With upward eye. Beating, pounding, Demanding praise, Ambitious, careful, A soul to raise. Suppressing emotion Forgetting to love, Seeking a goal Gleaming above. Challenging evil, Not thinking to flee. Onward forever To VICTORY! ,,L,l1L..1-1-1- The Room CChcw'acter sketches of juniorsj LIKE all old rooms. This one was built around the bed, an elaborate, massive structure of the late nineteenth century. Many people had slept in that bed, some gaining strength, some inspiration, some losing sorrow and past mistakes in rest and preparation for the next day. Just as the bed had touched and changed many people, they also had left their impression on the bed. It had the dignity and prestige of an established monarchy. Right across from the bed stood the dressing table. At first glance it wasn't very striking looking, peaceful and placid, but defi- nitely not outstanding. On looking closer it was exquisite. The skirt was of pale blue dotted swiss, very sweet and very demure. As a sudden dash of color, quite a surprise, a red ribbon ran around the top. All over the top of the table were scattered different articles of vanity-Red Velvet lipstick, Black Mask nail polish, nail files, combs, brushes, hand lotion, powder, and tenderly tucked away in one corner was a bottle of Matchitbelli perfume, often opened but never used. A simple, gold leaf mirror hung above the table. Underneath

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The Spectator ' Thirty-seven Things About McGehee's I'1l Never Forget THE. WHOLE eight years-and we're almost at the end. Every day has been full of things we've done and seen, and though I'm sure that I can't remember everything, there are a few things in this school that I'll never forget. How we ate in the fifth grade--Jane, Harriott, Little, and Tete at one table, Margo and I at another, while the rest of them yearned to be invited to sit at the first table with the big four . . . how we used to play Capture and Tete would torture us on the see-saws . . . that Mayan festival we gave because we liked history so much .... The sixth grade--the time we dropped a worm down Mrs. Hearn's back because it was April Fool's day and she got back at us with an arithmetic test . . . the experienced feeling of watching new girls enter the fifth grade .... Seventh-we were really beginning to grow up-our first exams . . . our first crushes on Seniors . . . giggling in physiology class . . . smoking pipes on the Easter house party .... Eighth-the glory of being at the head of the grammar school . . . Jane Hackett, the first student body president of the grammar school . . . the birth of the Tattler and the fun we had printing it ourselves . . . history class, or rather the lack of one . . . exploring the roof and the secret passages on the third floor . . . dancing school Friday nights and real dances every Saturday night . . . Suddenly we were Freshmen and in the high school-May Day, and how it rained for the first time in I don't know how many years . . . being in our first Dramatic Club production Cin the important role of' the Third Woodcutter's Childi . . . Community Week . . . the twenty- fifth anniversary and all that went with it .... Sophomore year--the first class with Mrs. Yancey, who had bawled us out so efiiciently in our youth . . . our silliness and use- lessness . . . the Nautilus . . . carrying the daisy chain for our sister class .... Junior-sitting on the back row in Latin fmy book is evidence of thatl . . . Chassy being amusing in French class . . . the excitement of electing fellow classmates to major offices .... The Senior year, best of all-the thrill of really being a Senior at last . . . the chlorine experiment in chemistry and how we coughed and sneezed for the next twenty-four hours . . . Little and Jackie in Senior Study Hall . . . working on the Spectator . . . Baby Day . . . the swell May Day . . . how the work piles up when hot weather sets in . . . college boards . . . those awful final exams . . . graduation!

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The Spectator Thirty-nine the mirror and the skirts was the sturdy little table. It never rocked. It never changed. It was always the same. The whole effect was delicate but dependable. In an alcove, slightly aloof, stood the secretary. It was a hand- some, dark piece of furniture, straight as a poker. It looked at the other furniture with a slightly condescending air. It was so self important and self-sufficient with its cubby holes full of messy, scribbled notes and -its stacks of books, that the other furniture was slightly awed by it. A .huge dictionary chock full of long, fifty cent words was placed within easy reach. Yet squashed between the rumps of two horses, almost-as if it was ashamed, was a tiny volume of love poems. A Stuck over in one corner stood a slightly shabby overstuffed armchair. It was covered with a once bright, rose chintz, now slightly faded. It wasn't an outstanding pieceof furniture. It didn't even have the quiet, demure beauty of the dressing table. No one ever noticed at first but everyone was slowly drawn to it like a pin to a magnet. There was no escaping it. It was a soft, easy-going, good natured chair, 'very reflective and pokey. It wasn't very ener- getic, but you could stay in it for hours without getting uncomfort- able or bored. It was the most hospitable thing in the whole room. For the finishing touch a small vase with a single red rose in it was placed on the secretary. It nodded and beckoned to everyone saying, Hello , It was so friendly and graceful, bobbing on its long, Willowy stem. Its scent filled the whole room with such a pure, sweet smell, that none could think, much less say anything mean while around it. It was definitely an extrovert rose, bouncing around attracting a lot of attention, but it was so friendly and poised, and always in such a good humor that it was impossible not to like it. Everybody liked it and it liked everybody. It was this final touch that made the room so homey. ' E. Smith, '42 - Liebestod Come, drink the sacred tears That water vineyards of the untold years. Come, grasp the golden cup of vintaged dreams Whose hopes, fermented, rise, it seems, Once more before the final taste Of death,-exquisite waste. Carmer Clabaugh, '42