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

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The Spectator Forty-nine THE water came in strong, slow blue swells up to the jagged brown of the rocks, and then hit suddenly-ploshl, and seemed to hang suspended for a moment before it fell back, leaving the rocks wet and shining, and settled in a mass of thick foam as it flung bits of white spray up to dance and dazzle a moment by themselves in the sunlight. The breeze which came from straight over the water and was stiff enough to keep a sail well filled, was not as cool as might be expected of an early May day, and the rocks, as she spread her bare toes on them, and stretched her brown legs, felt warm and good with the sun. She leaned back on short, sturdy brown arms and let the wind catch her hair, and romp with her torn red skirt, and her dark eyes narrowed and reached for the horizon, in the manner of all those who love the sea. Below, far to the left, where the beach was, and the harbor, there were the fishing boats with their bright patched sails, and many men, and barrels, and queer smells, and the babble of people, but here, for a time at least, she was free and at peace, with nothing but the wind and the sea and the sun and the gulls. And though she came often, she could never quite take it all in. At a noise from behind her she turned, and a small boy clam- bered up on the rocks, with skin as olive as her own, and eyes as accustomed to sea gazing. Quickly he dropped down beside her, and with excitement showing in every hurried movement, bubbled- Elena, yesterday my father-he took me at last-in the great boat, the largest of them all, with the sails that I can't see the top of, and we went far out-even past the Islands of Flowers! And oh such fish, Elena, such fish you could never imagine-great shiny ones with scales the size of my hand. And I caught one, alone without anyone, except father to pull him onto the deck for me. Oh Elena! There was pride in the very sound of his voice, and her eyes were a mirror of the lights that shone in his. If I were only a boy, she burst out, flinging her dark hair aside impatiently, only a boy! You are so lucky- He stopped for a moment and looked at her with something like pity, and then sud- denly went on with a gayety that included her. Wait, Elena, just wait-someday I shall be great and strong like my father-stronger perhaps, and we shall have a ship as tall as the 'Celia', and we shall sail on and out into the ocean- And as he talked the girl laughed aloud with the joy and the familiar thought of it, and gathered her knees up under her chin, and circled her bright skirt with bare brown arms, and let her hair blow in the wind. Our sails Will be red, Elena, red like the sunset, and there will

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Forty-eight The Spectator The Young Melbourne By Duma can The Young Melbourne by David Cecil is the type of book I most enjoy. It is a psychological novel written in such a way that it can be enjoyed by students as we, as the more intellectual elders. I would place this book on the same level as Fanny Kemble, Trelawny, and Maurois's delightful biographies, Ariel, Byron, and Dusraell. David Cecil gives a perfect picture of Melbourne, not the Mel- bourne you and I read of in history, but the young, gay, and, rather glamorous one. William's whole personality was a paradox. Racy and refined, sensible and eccentric, cynical and full of sentiment, di- rect and secretive, each successive impression he made seemed to contradict the last evolution of character. We see clearly the great impression Melbourne's mother, the loose, but brilliant Woman made upon him, and we see the sorrow that was caused him by his half mad wife, Caroline Lamb, whom he loved so dearly, not because he wished to, but because he couldn't help it. We see Melbourne, the procrasti- nator, who wasted ten years in his life because he could not find any- thing to do that interested him, and again we see him as the student, devouring all books within his reach. 'Tis, indeed, a perfect picture of a man, a puzzling one, and above all, an interesting one. . A review of The Young Melbourne would not be complete with- out mentioning Cecil's delightful prologue, a description of the age in which Melbourne lived, the age of Byron and Shelley, the time of loose morals and high intellectual standards, when love of life and luxury were at their highest. The description is perfect, and Cecil shows true knowledge of the background in which his subject lived. It is as delightful reading as the book itself, and is, perhaps, of even more worth. M. T. M., 41. Evensong Night falls, a black velvet curtain envelopeing the world, shov- ing dreams into eternity. The stars sleepily blink their jeweled eyes and the moon plays hide and seek behind soft, misty clouds. Fairies peek from behind bushes Whose leaves are silver in the moonlight. All the world sleeps, lullibied by the soft soothing wind. ,

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Fifty The Spectator be no work then, just you and I, and I will fight anyone who comes in our way and kill them-like my father did the man from the moun- tains. He was standing now, carried away with the idea and with his own future greatness, and he seemed a part of the wind and the rush of the water. But suddenly an angry voice from below him interrupted, and a thick, dark woman appeared on the rocks, with a dirty blouse and eyes that flashed fire. Grabbing him by an arm she started on the way down, with a short look of scorn for his companion. Wasting time counting sea-gulls, when there's work to be done, and the washing at home, and no one to bring your father's barrels to market. As he scrambled away he looked back, with great fear in his eyes, and the joy and the pride taken out of him. But the girl on the rocks hardly turned, but sat still in the wind with her gold braceleted arms about her red skirt, and her hair playing games with the wind, and the sun and the spray all around her. ii. -ii Smog Smog settled from the air and belched From the tall smoke stacks, grips you In its claws by the throat and you Fight with gasping lung its hold. The rays of the sun battle spasmodically To break it, but fail, and it chokes on. Stevenson, '41 -1 Will you ever forget that night last summer? We were out at the lake, and there was nobody around for miles, And the breeze blew, and rippled the water over our bare feet, And the spray flew up, and got us wet, and we laughed. You said my hair smelled good mixed with salt, And you liked to feel it blow in your face. You were being poetic, dear, and didn't know it. You knew you were in love though, You told me so, but now, somehow, you seem to have forgotten. M. T. M., '41