Polytechnic High School - Polytechnic Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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THE POLYTECHNIC I hen there was a pause. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the event of the evening. Suddenly someone cried, La Pi! La Pi qui chante! (the singing magpie). The others took up the cry, La Pi! La Pi qui chante! Rodrique whispered, Regardez done! our Apache queen must be ‘La Pi qui chante!' Indeed the girl whom they had noticed earlier in the evening had risen from her seat and was walking indolently toward the piano. She made an odd picture standing there in her nondescript clothes, like some mongrel that had wandered in from the street. She sang a popular song of the boulevards, a lurid, raucous thing, in a shrill voice. Rodrique and Laurence were disappointed; they had expected something more unusual. I he song, however, was rendered with spirit and evoked much applause. The girl s thin cheeks flushed, her dark eyes grew luminous, and for the moment she was almost attractive. I hen she saw the two men who were sipping their drinks unconcernedly and not joining in the applause. She seemed non- plussed; she was evidently accustomed to unanimous enthusiasm. Rodrique, leaning over to Laurence, murmured, How incongruous that this ugly little Pi should sing at all. The girl spoke rapidly to the accompanist. He shook his head and seemed greatly amazed. She stamped her foot, struck two or three high notes on the piano. I he pianist finally acquiesced and she turned once more to the audience, which was hushed in expectancy. Rodrique and Laurence looked at each other in astonishment as the first exquisite notes of Un Bel Giorno flowed from the lips of this little Apache. Clear and smooth and effortless they came with the artistry of the true music lover. As the last sweet sound died away, the girl, with the true savoir faire of the real artist, held her pose for a moment, and then bowed to the audience. And there was triumph in her glance as she observed the dumbfounded Laurence and his friend. A veritable storm of applause greeted the efforts of La Pi, but to this she seemed strangely indifferent, for she turned suddenly and darted out of the cafe into the night. It was warm in the great Metropolitan Opera House. One might be excused for napping through the first two acts of Lucia di Lammermoor, especially if one had an assured social position. So Rodrique Paget snoozed on comfortably. He was rather tired of this high brow stuff anyway; he would have preferred the Follies; at least there was some snap to that. His friend Laurence, however, was following the opera closely. Perhaps it was that, as a newspaper owner, he wished to be sure that his critics were correct, or it might be that he was interested in the prima donna, a new French singer, who was creating quite a sensation. [ zb]

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THE POLYTECHNIC Very well put, my friend, but you have not yet solved the riddle, said Rodrique. Look! Both turned. A big, fierce looking fellow, wearing a black sweater had lounged over and sat insolently on one edge of the girl's table, and started to address her familiarly. She did not raise her eyes; she merely turned half away and said in a hard voice, Fiche-moi le paix! (the French equivalent for beat it ). The man paid no attention; he merely leaned further over the table and leered into her face. The girl was distinctly annoyed. She hesitated a moment and then deliberately shrugged one thin shoulder free of its loose covering. Laurence and Rodrique, who had been watching this proceeding with interest, simul- taneously gave a little exclamation of wonder, for on the bare shoulder startlingly black against the white skin, was the imprint of a black rat, which had been burned or branded in. The girl uttered a single word, Regardes! A change came over the man. His face blanched to a sickly gray; he dropped his bullying manner, and tremblingly slid from the table murmuring, Ah— pardon—, and withdrew. Ca! exclaimed Rodrique, explain that if you can. By heavens, I am cornered! replied Laurence. If 1 were only a romantic school boy w hat a story I could weave about an Apache queen, leader of a gang, whose sign is the black rat, burned into the skin. Of course that solution is ridiculous, but, even so, I cannot help wondering— His sentence was cut short by a commotion at the other end of the room. A young man rose, stepped to the center of a space that had been cleared of tables and cried in a loud voice, Silence! Rodrique gave Laurence a nudge. Watch now'. 1 his is the treat of the evening. The artists of this quarter come here in the wee hours to offer their talents, and to be hissed or applauded as the case may be. The young man, w'ho seemed to be master of ceremonies, opened an old piano, crying as he did so, Allons, la divertissement! His fellow Bohemians quickly took up the cry: Oui, oui, la divertissement! The announcer addressed himself to the room and inquired, Who has some- thing to offer? In the far corner, a dark young man rose, with a sheaf of papers in his hand. Moi, j ai des poemes, he said quietly. He was evidently well known to the habitues of the cafe for they greeted him with welcoming cries of, Ah, Pierre! Pierre de Gaulon! The young poet stepped forward and read in a deep, vibrant voice, while the pianist played softly the while. I hey were rather good, pretty lyric things, mostly sonnets to Madelon, Laurette, Renee, etc. He was applauded appreci- atively but not encored. Following him came a pianist and an actor who w'ere respectively hissed and acclaimed I ]

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THE POLYTECHNIC Suddenly Laurence leaned forward with an exclamation. The blouse ol Lucia's peasant costume had slipped from her shoulder and revealed something which looked like a large court plaster beauty mark. Laurence trained his opera glasses on the singer, and after a few moments scrutiny exclaimed, Jove! I thought I couldn't be mistaken; it is a black rat!” Then he jumped to his feet and left the box without a word of excuse. Rodrique sat up and blinked. Really! what's got into Laurence?” he murmured. He would have been even more astonished if he could have heard his recent guest saying over and over to himself as he hastened down the corridor to the Green Room, La Pi,—La Pi qui chante.” Helen Growney, '24. ■% $' $ •$ Maybe So Maybe yes, maybe no, 1 am lazy, maybe so, For 1 hate to do my work, All the hardest part I shirk. 1 would rather, pensive lie On the grass neath God s blue sky, In the hills beside a stream, 'Neath whisp'ring trees, and think and dream; A distant cow-bell tinkling clear, A white-tailed rabbit without fear, A song-bird with its honeyed notes, And floating leaves like fairy boats. These things all I hear and see, Ar.d wonder why the folks like me Are always chained to office chairs, Or caged in towns like captured bears Oh, I love the open hills, Running water, singing rills, Boundless sky and sweet, clean air, And wand'ring trails through meadows fair. Oh, I love the forest deeps, The whispered secrets that it keeps, The solitude and beauty, too, Of places haunted by the few. At my desk is waiting work. How I wish now I could shirk. Maybe yes, maybe no, 1 am lazy, maybe so. M. H., ‘24.