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

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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

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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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Forty The Spectator Soft through the shadows of purplish hue Gently the music comes stealing on wings Of light. The tone grew deep and warm With life and breath. The artist's bow O'erdrew the stringsg the sound was rich And full, still lingered vibrantly Although no morethe master played. Each gentle curve, the smooth dark wood, The chin rest cool, the graceful bow Enhanced the eye, and soothed the mind. The full, sweet notes awoke the sense Of sound, unused, and quickened it To pulsing beat. The gleaming eye, The wondering look, all swept along With beauty's urging power. The sound Increased, the bow crashed down then Upward swept, again it fell And this time stayed to rest beside Its master's quiet form. The light Grew dim, then faded into dark. The purple turned to blackg the notes No more were heard, and silence deep As death sank over all. Blind Bob vu Old Blind Bob died the other day, just went to bed and never woke up. All the school kids are going to chip in and put up a statue to him. I guess it will be one of the first statues ever put up to a man who never done anything great but was just great in him- self. He must have been pretty old, 'cause Pa knew him when he was a boy. Every recess, Pa said, he'd come around to the school and talk to the kids. Pa said that he knew every boy and girl in the city of Montgomery by name. I didn't know him very well, but every summer I went to visit Bennie, he would pass by, blowing his trumpet and peddling his candy, stuff his wife made. It surely was good too, especially the sugar taffy. Everytime I'd hear his trumpet I'd run out to buy some. He didn't know who I was, but he always had something nice to say. One day weihad a long talk about the Italians and the Ethiopians, and he made me feel like he really liked me. I guess that's why everyone liked him so much, because he was so friendly. Anyway it surely was a shock when old Blind Bob died. A '