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

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Fifty THE SPECTATOR But if while he sleeps we glide among the patient rows of cabbage. the green leaves, purged of all but their essence, shimmer with a mystic chill in their bath of silver. Meanwhile the beaded mists permeate the porous ground, newly raked. Now, the blades of moonlight touch each plant with a sort of royal accolade. Then, as the light diffuses, each wrinkled leaf seems like the sliced cerebrum of some thoughful phantom. How charged with secret animation each lulling second. Close by, a glowworm slips in the cabbage heart. Far away, the cabbages are ruffled ovals set against the indigoed indifference of the slope. Unable to see now beyond the fancies which circle in the brain, alone sleepless, and but half-enchanted among all these remote realities, spills its reason as it stoops among the cooled globules, fringed with silver, which, none- theless, seem all the more unreal for being thus caressed. The reality of the inanimate is far more shadowy than we suppose. What happens to the cabbage, merely wholesome by day when it stares into the moon by night is beyond all ordinary powers of speculation. How fragile and delicate each plant which studs the furrowed black with its mercurous sepals. How utterly equivocal remain the silent cabbages. Carmer '42. Impressions As the young man stepped through the door, he could hear the loud humming of voices. When he sat down at the piano, he ran his hands gently over the keyboard, as if it were dear to him. Then he be- gan to play themes of familiar pieces. He realized that people were all about him in the room. He could hear the gruff voice of a big man who was talking to his hostess. She had on a soft and fluffy evening gown: he had touched it as he came in. She was toying with her necklace. He could also hear a group of men over in the corner who were very much interested in the stock market. Two women with high pitched voices were discussing new recipes and domestic problems. As he struck the first cords of Tschaikowsky's Piano Concerto in B Flat Minor, he knew everyone would stop and listen: he knew that his hostess would stop flitting from guest to guest, he knew the men, in terested in the stock market would stop and listen: and he knew the two women discussing domestic problems would stop their chattering, for the music was so familiar and beautiful. He knew all of this, because he studied the people about him. Their natures, voices, mannerisms, and everything but their faces meant nothing to him, for, you see the young mmcim was blind' Gloria Ratchford '45.

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THE SPECTATOR Forty-nine she shakes her shoulders like Carmen Miranda cmd does the best rhumba this side of Cuba. Once she gave S10 of her lunch money to the March of Dimes because she knew how those poor kids feel, and had to pawn a solid gold football given to her by one of her ardent admirers in order to live the rest of the month. She loves to reform people by setting a bad example and though somewhat crazy and headstrong, she is undoubtedly the most likable and sweetest girl I have even known. '43 The Cabbage Miracle The cabbage-and it seems strange-has been woefully neglected by the philosophers as an object for aesthetic contemplation. When we consider, in the praise of women, to what pains the poets have put them- selves to thrust aside the diabolic and behold only the angelic, it seems indeed lamentable how few the sighs of admiration which the queenly cabbages elicit. I am inclined to think the cabbage has baffled even vegetarians because of an enigmatic reticence on the part of this bras- sicaceous plant which I attribue to a significant equivocation in regard to its life, surroundings, and indeed its whole appearance, here, for the first time, I believe, exposed to proper enquiry. First, it must be known in what regions the cabbage is most pleased to flourish. This I think can easily be answered-in the mountains- where rain falls through no great filter of grey smoke, where the soil sleeps on no flat, springless bed of plains-in the mountains where the rain drops in its pristine crystals, and the land lies pillowed among mossed boulders. Here, in the mountains, as in no other region, the sun is hot, the wind cool, and the ground moist. Here the cabbage with its fibrous abundance stands in contrast to the threadless frugality of lone- some ridges which for centuries have cloistered these lands which in- troduce the grass to clouds. Here where the growing season is briefest, summer is a most munificent and vigilant attendant of her crops. It is no wonder that the cabbage is indigenous to the Appalachians where it can grow over the deep breasted hills, although its roots are short. F rom the farmer in those regions, the cabbage receives due homage as a staple vegetable. Beyond this, however, a close understanding with the cabbage is impossible for him, since he lives with it far too in- timately ever to suspect the presence of any qualities which do not nourish him in his immediate need. When he has eaten his plate of slaw, his soul has no further appetite. He, the master of the ploughshare, has no sympathy with that which can not be dug out of the stolid ground.

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THE SPECTATOR Fifty-one Air Raid Air raids at school were considered a perfect pest by the whole school, especially the teachers. They loathed them even more than the girls, who had got over their novelty by now and were getting tired of being waked, night after night. On one particularly cold night in December, just before the Christmas holidays, there was a rather bad raid, a raid which was at the same time rather amusing. When the air raid siren went off, Anne and Nancy woke up as usual. Oh! bother, exclaimed Nancy, slespily, why do they always have these blasted raids just when I want to sleep? Don't ask me, replied Anne, I like them even less than you do, which is something. Come on, we'd better get started, Nancy said, Oh, drat, why do these crazy Germans always come the nights I haven't any ot my raid junk near? I don't know, but I do know that you'd better buck up if you don't want Matie barging in here demanding why you aren't outside in the corridor, replied Anne. The two girls finally got to the stairs when Anne suddenly remem- bered her gas mask. She dashed back to get it, but ran into Matie, alias tlze Matron, who was seeing that every one was out of her room. Oh, I'm sorry, apologized Anne, I didn't know you were in here. Evidently, or you wou1dn't have charged into your room the way you did. What do you want? Your gas mask as usual, I suppose. Well, get it, and hurry up. Anne rummaged around, finally found it, and joined the rest of her form in the corridor downstairs. Found it? asked Rachel, who had heard of Anne's exploit from Nancy. Umph, replied Anne. Lucky for you Matie let you in. She didn't let me get mine when I forgot it, the old meanie, joined in Lillian. Come on, girls, you really are the slowest snails I ever saw, called Miss News. Buck up, Lillian, I'm almost stepping on your feet, and, anyway, I want to get a decent place on the floor tonight. Last time I was too late and I had to sleep on the benches, which I can't stand. All right, said Lillian, 'don't get cross now 'cause I had to do the same thing, and whose fault was it? Yours, Miss Nancy Whitman. Oh, dry up and leave me alone, said Nancy, Miss Melon told us