Selah High School - Fruitspur Yearbook (Selah, WA)

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THE FRUIT SPUR nineteen writing furiously, and the midnight oil bums low. Now she heaves a huge sigh of relief, gathers up her writing materials, and is about to depart. The young woman is Sylvia Saunders, editor of the Selah Valley Optimist, writing an editorial on The Use of Eyes. Another vision? What portrayal is this? I see a vast hall-the senate cham- ber. ln the midst of this great assemblage of men stands a lone woman, eloquent and forceful. lt is Vivien Mueller, woman senator, delivering a speech in Congress urging the adoption of a bill for the reduc- tion of the high cost of loving. This scene changes. I see the interior of a huge tabernacle. On the platform is a f'ure, fiery, tense and full of entreaty. He is delivering a sermon, a sermon whose awful persuasion and woeful wam- ings would soften the hard heart of a Spanish buccaneer. It is Rev. Donald Fogelquist, world's leading evangelist, whose eloquence and oratorical powers have made him even superior to Billy Sunday. lt is rumored that his ability as a great speaker was first recognized, when, as a student of Selah High School, he used to do his stunt in French class. Now that vision fades. There glides into my range of sight the porch of a pretty bungalow. Seated in a slowly mov- ing porch swing are two people-a man and a maid. lt is a very pretty little love scene. The man gently steals his arm around the girl, and she snuggles willingly into the hollow of his arm and breathes a contented little sigh of happiness. Yvonne, my dearest Yvonne, breathes the man, bending down to kiss the dark, sleek head. Oh, you dumbell! Can't you kiss her like you meant it? Now, do it over again, storms the exasperated director. Oh, do it right this time, please, sighs the girl. All right, Miss Coleman. Sorry, replies the man, and Mary, world's greatest motion-picture actress, moves away from his arms and they prepare to do it all over again. Now there stretches before my vision a huge stadium, in which is being played a woman's championship game of baseball. A dark-haired girl, a fine athletic type, steps up to the plate and coolly waits for a ball. Presently a swift one is sent her by the pitcher and the girl, keenly alert, deals it a well-directed blow which sends it flying. A mighty cheer is sent up by the crowd, and Mona Kelly, famous woman ballplayer, and intemationally known as Lucky Strike, adds another home run to her record. What new vision is this? What glitter and what blare? Oh, yes! The vision clears, and I behold that the Camival, the city of canvas and bunk, has come to town. ln front of one of the tents, a large one with the word Extravaganza printed in blazing electric letters above it, is a man with a megaphone, who shouts out information as to this most gorgeous, this most wonderful show which starts in just one minute, ladies and gentlemen. A curious crowd gathers. Behind the man a door opens and reveals to light the most gorgeous vision of grease paint and tawdry trappings ever beheld. Then begins a movement, or rather a series of move- ments, tenuous, tortuous and twistly. The crowd starts, open-mouthed. Somebody makes an exclamation. My word! he gasps., Nathalie Tyrrell, l'll be bound! And-so it is. Mlle Tyrrell, world famous for her extravagant interpretation of the hitches and twitches of the Extrava- ganzaf' But that picture is erased. My crystal reveals to me a girl seated at a piano, playing. She bobs up and down and keeps her shoulders in a constant state of wriggly agitation, in accordance with the music. Hush! A peculiar sound comes to my ears. Can it be music? lt sounds more like Mr. Shaffer's description of jazz-a buzz saw going through a keg of ten-penny nails. lt is jazz! Now I see it all. lt is Leona Grignon, world's leading jazzist, playing over the radio. What new realm of vision is this which greets my inquiring eyes? To me is re- vealed a hall in the very modern and up- to-date Selah High School. At one end is an open door, leading into an office. Coming from the room are voices. Some- one, a woman, is speaking in a strangely familiar voice. Where were you sent down from ? she asks. Now comes the reply. I was sent down from French I

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eighteen THE FRUIT SPUR revolutionary as ever, and on her banner flash the words: Votes for Women. What new scene is this? Oh, yesg I see the canvas auditorium of the Chatauqua circuit. The appearance of Hawaiian players and singers has been billed for this evening. The performers enter the stage, and in their midst is a girl, dark- eyed and slim, who seats herself and be- gins to play on a Hawaiian steel guitar. The girl is Alice Gross, and the way she produces the sobbing notes from the guitar would put a native-born Hawaiian to shame. Again the changing of pictures. I wait. Down the street dashes the frenzied figure of a man. With eyes wildly staring, his breath coming in gasps and arms flaying the air, he leaps madly on. Who is this fast retreating figure? Is it some desper- ate criminal making a frantic effort to escape the clutches of the law? Oh, no! I see the light. It is only Walter Ehret, Selah dog-catcher, pursuing another of his prey. What new vision is this? I see a room. From its unusual furnishings, original and artistic, I should judge it to be an artist's studio. Near a group of windows stands a large easel. In front of the easel, skil- fully wielding a brush, is a bobbed-haired girl, dressed in a blue smock. With lips parted and dark eyes shining with eager- ness, she puts the finishing strokes to a masterpiece. It is Lottie Calvert, world famous for her beautiful paintings, at work in her Paris studio. Another change? What new revelation is this? Down a plowed highway speeds an automobile like a hunted thing. Over the wheel of the fleeing car crouches the driver with a fiendish look of triumph on her face. She turns, looks backwards and beholds, far back in the cloud of dust, her outwitted pursuer. Gaily she kisses her fingertips and addresses him thus: Ta, Ta, old dear, see you later. Then, obedi- ent to the movement of her foot, the car again leaps forward. Be not alarmed. 'Tis only Doris Adley,'outwitting another speed cop. That fades and a new picture presents itself. I see a room whose fumishings bespeak comfort and luxury. Seated at a small desk is a young woman rapidly tak- ing dictation. Across the room, before an open window, stands a tense figure with arms outstretched in a touching gesture of appeal and eyes full of passionate long- ing. All the while she keeps up a rapid- fire dictation. Then, with a sweep of hungry arms, she embraces the window curtain, presses it to her bosom, and buries her face into its welcoming folds to the accompaniment of her whispered words, My love, my love. Over at the desk the young woman yawns, turns a page, and writes, ...,,....,,,,,,,....,.. ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.,,,,,, , .,...,,,,,.......,,,.... The woman at the window turns. It is Louise Hoffman, well-known novelist, dictating another best seller. What new picture is this? I see a charming bungalow situated in sunny Cali- fornia. The door opens and a pretty brown-haired little woman steps out on the porch and waves gaily at the handsome chap coming down the road. Now he turns in, comes up the walk, affectionately greets the young woman and asks: Din- ner ready, Dot? Already, Ted, come on in, is the reply, and, arm in arm, Mrs. Ted Barnsley, nee Dorothy Anderson, and her husband go in to dinner. What new revelation is this? To my wondering eyes is sent a picture of the darkened interior of a large theatre. Be- hind the foot-lights stands a tense, pas- sionate figure. She is singing-rich, deep, melodious. What golden depths, what silvery heights! With one magnificent sweep of voice, one lonely, lingering trill, and the wonderful gush of melody ends. For a long moment no sound is made by the entranced audience. Then comes a roar of applause. People shout, laugh, cry, and then cheer again, all the while madly clapping. Intermingled in the clamor comes insistent cries of More! More! On the stage the singer gracious- ly inclines her head. It is Charlotte Am- brosen, prima donna and world's greatest contralto, acknowledging the applause for her ninth encore. Again a change, and again a new vision. Seated at a desk is a young woman with bobbed hair and dreamy eyes. She is

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twenty THE FRUIT SPUR Class. I see. You are a chip from the old block all right, Clifford, and I am going to do to you what Mr. Pfeifer used to do to your father. l'1l give you poetry, 100 lines. Next time l'll make it l,000. A boy, a tall blonde youngster, with blue eyes and a wicked grin, leaves the room and goes down the hall. Someone closes the office door. Oh, now I understand. That voice-of course-it's jean's! For on the door are the words, Principal-- Miss Scutt. lt is rumored that after Mr. Pfeifer, due to the awful strain, was re- moved to Steilacoom, jean nobly offered her services. Poor jean! They say she will be the next to go. Too bad! That vista slowly fades, and to my eyes is revealed another. I perceive an old woman, sitting with aged head bowed upon work-hardened hands. Her whole figure bespeaks utter dejection and despair. The pathetic old soul is Merla Clark. Poor thing! She is at present an undertaker. Many years have passed and Merla has undertaken many things and accomplished nothing. I Now that dismal picture, too, fades, and reveals- No, no! The spark! The flame! The blazing burst of light! The sign that you have finished. Well done, oh good and faithful crystal! To you belongs the glory and the praise, and heartfelt grati- tude. Fare-thee-well, oh crystal-thing of mystery, of wisdom, thee-well! and of fire-fare- JJ' Elite! Svtanharhs of the Glass of 1923 Our aim success, our hope to win Has ever been our guide. We strove in friendly rivalry As classmates, side by side. The goal is reached, the victory's won- A span of life is past, Now we behold the rising sun ln future promise cast. We'll face the dawn with fearless mien And raise our standard to the skyg We'll win life's game-the hall of fame! For dear old Selah High. -Maria Webber.