McMinnville High School - McMinnvillan Yearbook (McMinnville, OR)

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’38 Lincolnian ’38 Sunset By Virginia MacLean A DROWSY stillness hung over the air and a gentle breeze softly rustled the green leaves as the sun, a huge ball of golden fire, was shedding its last rays over the earth. A young girl was seated on a mossy rock in a beautiful garden where the fragrance of the flowers, especially the roses and lilacs, was almost overpowering. Her face was turned to the setting sun, but nothing of the beautiful sight was reflected on her face. Her expression was yearning and wistful. For many minutes she had been sitting there in that expectant pose as if waiting for something or someone. Hearing footsteps on the grass, she turned and the silence was broken by her voice: “Is that you, Hannah?” Yes, dear,’ answered the one addressed, a heavy-set middle-aged woman. “Aren’t you ready to go in now? I don’t think you should sit out here so long every evening waiting for the sun to set. The evening air is likely to bring back your cough.” “The air is so warm it can’t harm me.” protested the girl. She was young—being still in her teens. Her face was full of beauty and strong character and giving her a passing glance, one would think she was normal, but on looking closer one noticed her expressionless eyes. She usually appeared happy and gay in spite of her affliction, but today her lovely face was clouded. She continued speaking, “I wish I could see the sunset. If I could only feel it as I do the rain or wind I would be happy. I have heard so many beautiful descriptions of the sunset that I feel as if I had missed something wonderful.” “Oh! How I wish I could help you see it!” sighed Hannah. Perhaps some day a miracle will happen and you will be able to see this beautiful sight.” You’re a dear, Hannah,” said the girl, trying to brighten up. “I mustn't hope for miracles.” At that moment, a voice interrupted them. “Please, may I speak to the blind lady?” asked a boy. Hannah turned to the intruder. “What do you want, little boy?” she asked of a small fellow who had just stepped out from behind a lilac bush. He was shyly regarding them. “Why, hello Johnny!” greeted the girl when she heard his voice. Of course you may speak to me.” “Who is ‘Johnny’?” queried Hannah. “The blind lady gave me a bouquet of roses once for my mother who was sick,” answered the boy. “Please, may I speak to her alone?” -Well---------” “Please Hannah,” begged the girl. “I'll call you when I’m ready to come in.” Hannah reluctantly departed. I was coming to see you” explained Johnny, “when I heard you say you wished to see the sunset. I would like to help you.” “How can a little boy like you help me?” she asked, hopelessly, as a shadow fell across her bright face. “I fear no one can.”

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’38 Lincolnian ’38 Last Will and Testament of the Class of ”38 BE IT KNOWN THAT—On this spring day of May, one thousand nine hundred and thirty-eight, we, the seniors of McMinnville High school, desire to be rid of certain obnoxious articles and a few best wishes. First, to Mr. Maxwell and Miss Showalter, senior class advisers, we leave the class of 1939, with all due apologies. To the class of thirty-nine, we leave our example of upright and law-abiding citizenship. Personally, we do leave these bequests: I, James Capps, do leave my drum to Don Postlewaite. I, Bill Davis, leave my best pipe to Bob King. I, Tom Maloney, do leave my ability to do nothing with gusto to Charles Cinnamon. I, Winona Robison, do leave my operation experience to the next appendicitis victim. I, Mavis Boundy, leave my ear-piercing giggle to anyone willing to take it. To Maurice Beal, I, Kenneth Harford, do leave my ticket to Slumberland during class. I, Kelton Peery, do leave to Glenn Brixey my foot powder. I, Mary Ellen Taylor, do leave my Martha Raye mouth to Margaret Clevenger. I, Carder Wilcox, do leave to Harold Kendrick my razor. I, Bill Hall, do leave my latest Ballyhoo to whoever can read it without blushing. I, Don Kreider, do leave my overdue library books to whoever will pay the fine. 1, Lois Noble, leave my athletic ability to Margaret Dancer. I, John Gilson, do leave my “line” to Arnel Fronk. To Verle Sauters, I, Dorothemae Moore, do leave my gum. I, Ezra Koch, leave my chair at Rotary to...................who I know will fit it. To little Brother Billy, I, Bob Barnes, leave my ability to concentrate. I, Ronald Eborall, do leave my strong, manly physique to Victor Wind. I, Myrtle Spraker, leave my social career to Jo Grocning. I, Mariella Frisbie, do leave my vamping ways to Barbara Hoffman. In Witness whereof, we the class of ’38, do set our hand and seal this third day of June, Anno Dominus, 1938.

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= ’38 Lincolnian ’38 The little boy drew himself up, proudly, as he said, “I’m eleven years old. My mother said I helped her feel better when she was sick. Please let me try to help you see the sunset. “You do want to help, don’t you? Very well,” and she resigned herself to what she thought would be some childish story. The boy went behind the lilac bush and returned with a violin case. He opened the case and with loving hands took up the violin. “Now,” he commanded. “Turn your face to the sunset and don’t say a word until I finished.” She turned her face to the west. He tucked the violin under his chin and then turned his face to the sun which had just started to hide itself behind a mountain. For a long moment he drank in the beautiful sight of the orange ball, which seemed poised on the peak of a purple mountain, shedding its light over the sky. Then, raising his bow he drew it softly across the strings. The waiting girl heard the soft mellow tones, very soft at first but gradually growing louder as the boy became more sure of himself. Lovely music, unlike anything she had ever heard was being played. The blended notes were filled with the blended colors in the heavens and one watching the girl’s face could have seen a beautiful sight. It lighted up, a deep joy appeared on her features. The expression on her face was like that of an artist who sees a beautiful picture. The music played on. unmindful of everything but the sunset. As the sun dropped lower and lower behind the mountain, the music became softer, gradually dying away as the sun set. A look of rapture was on the girl’s face. She had seen the beautiful picture of a sunset! Strictly Utilitarian By Betty Wood Although my heart with rapture th» ills From gazing at the daffodils, That doesn’t help to paint the screens Or plant the corn and lima beans. Hearing wrens and robins cheep Unfortunately doesn't keep Hot water in the kitchen tank Or money in the savings bank. The fragrance of the budding rose Is more than lovely, goodness knows. But does not keep the cellar neat Or fashion shoes for my poor feet. It’s fun to watch the squirrels rear Their young. The world this time of year Is full of limpid green and blue And things that need attending to.