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

Page 53 text:

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

Page 52 text:

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.

Page 54 text:

Fifty-two THE SPECTATOR to keep quiet when we got outside. So you'd better before she catches you. They all filed into the shelter to find that the benches were the only places left. Why on earth do we always get the left-overs? cried Anne. Because you're such a darn slowpoke, Nancy replied. Keep quiet down there, or I'll report you, as everyone is trying to sleep and you are all causing a row, as usual, called Miss Melon from the other end of the shelter. Push over, Nancy, and stop poking me in the eye with your toe, said Anne, irritated. I will if you'd only let me get somewhere, replied Nancy. Gradually they all fell asleep until the all clear sounded, and they all charged back to the main building to find it still there, worse luck. Io Rogers '45 O The Wolf Dog I was sleeping when it happened, but when it did I woke up suddenly and listened. It was a long, shrill cry. I pulled the covers tightly around me for it's cold in Canada. Listen!-there it is again. It's the cry of a Wolf--a lone Wolf, not rnore than a few feet away: it's Peza. I know you're wondering, Who is Peza? Well, about two years ago, when I was out hunting I trapped a Wolf cub. I brought the poor, half frozen thing home and gave it food and a place to rest. I kept him as a pet and he grew up with me. He and I were devoted to each other. It was funny, during the night when wolves would cry out in the distance, Peza would take heed and growl. He acted as if he wished to follow them, but he made no effort to do so. Some of the natives around here kept telling me to let him go back to the wild with the rest of the pack or else something dreadful was going to happen to him. I thought they were just superstitious, crazy, half-breeds: I kept Peza. Well, to get back to the present, that warning given by those crazy- men flashed into my mind. I listened tensely again. No, I couldn't hear the cry any longer. I thought about Peza and rushed to see if he was still chained outside where I left him a few hours ago. Yes, he was there-dead. I stopped and looked. His throat seemed to be cut by sharp teeth. Wolves teeth? Was that true what those half-breeds had said? Do wolves really come back and punish their kind, or is this just a story? lean Gibbons '45.