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

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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.

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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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T HI- POLY T ECHNIC The Wife of Henri'Pierre Jr WAS a lovely summer afternoon in beautiful Milan, but the most exclusive part of the town was practically deserted; people were not in town at this time of the year. However, one of the big palaces of the Piazza del Duomo was open, and the few peasants and street-venders who passed there wondered a little. Above, in the little tea room of the palace, two lonely members of society were sighing and wishing they were at the seashore, in the Alps, at Monte Carlo, anywhere but here. I think it's perfectly disgusting, my dear Silvia, to be here in this suffocating heat when every one is away, sighed the Countess Violanti, but then, when one hasn't the means! But Bianca, you were here last summer, and you told me you had a perfectly lovely time, replied Silvia. Ah, last summer! sighed the Countess. Last summer at this time half society was still here. Last summer, yes, last summer....Oh, well! Last summer there was someone here, someone whom 1 could take around with me, in order to arouse the envy of all my friends. I here was one dear boy over whom I had all the power in the world, one who would not dare say 'No' when 1 said, Dear Hen— dear Someone, you are taking me to the opera tonight, and tomorrow we will go for a walk, for my dog is getting fat and my friend the author has left town! Ah! I hen it was lovely to stay in town, and society stayed behind to watch and envy me. If you are talking about Henri-Pierre, my dear.... 'f es, 1 m talking about Henri-Pierre, our beautiful Henri-Pierre, the man w'ho is more handsome than....oh, I don't know. But he was beautiful, Henri- Pierre. Of course, he had no mind of his own, the dear boy, he had to have some- one to tell him everything! My dear, as 1 was telling you, said Silvia, rather timid before all this ardor, as I was telling you.... Ves, I know’ what you were telling me, interrupted the Countess Violanti, you were telling me that now he is posing for our friend the artist, or that our friend the poet is writing sonnets about him. Oh, but you won't listen, Bianca! said her friend. I wanted to tell you that Henri-Pierre is married! Married! Henri-Pierre married? Yes. He married a little street girl, a girl of the people, said Silvia sadly. Poor boy, he never did have any sense. But Silvia, cried the excited Violanti, 1 must go and see her. Maybe the marriage can be annulled or something. It may be that we can save him yet! It was early the following afternoon that Bianca, Countess Violanti, was shown into a beautiful panelled room, richly furnished. In the dim light, Bianca [28]