Siskiyou Union High School - White and Gold Yearbook (Weed, CA)

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but there his interest seems to cease. I feel sorry for the child, said Miss Hanley, in a way. Mr. Busby was undeniably the peppiest teacher the English IV class had ever known. He kept the little class in a state of continual animation. He was stern, and he was just. Among themselves his pupils wove fantastic tales about his private life and marvelled at the soulfulness of his eyes. At times Mr. Busby felt exactly like a queer circus animal, surrounded by a group of curious and doting observers. The Poetry Contest was just one of Mr. Busby's plans to hold the interest and atten- tion of his class. After they had delved into the fundamentals of versification and discussed pentameters and trochaics to their fullest extent, Mr. Busby offered a prize to the girl who should submit the best poem, to be judged by the other members of the faculty. The English IV class suddenly became poetry conscious. Students who had never thought of poems beyond the vague, hazy comprehension that such a thing existed, scribbled feverishly far into the nights and slept a troubled sleep with anapestic and trochaic verse flitting through their bewildered dreams. Not too surprisedly, Mary Jo Benton was presented with a dainty pen and pencil set as the prize. The judges said that there was something quite remarkable in her simply perfect little verse. Mary jo, said Mr. Busby, as that young lady tripped eomplacently into the class- room, twenty minutes late, the day after her triumph, please see me a minute after class. Okay, assented Mary blithely, and powdered her nose covertly behind a book. That poem you wrote, said Mr. Busby, as the rest of the English class filed chatter- ing away, are you quite certain that it is entirely original? Sure, replied Mary Jo. Mr. Busby spoke slowly as if he were feeling his way. I wonder if this is yours? he asked, and produced a tiny, cloth-bound volume of poems. Mary Jo snatched at it and gave a little cry. Where did you find that? she demanded. Mr. Busby was examining the fly-leaf critically, though he had read its inscription before, From Uncle Kim to Mary Jo, and he did not answer immediately. Finally, he closed the book and regarded Mary Jo sternly. Besides being the shirking, deceiving deed that it is, do you know what you've done, Mary Jo? he asked. Do you realize that this is a very grave offense that will subject you to expulsion? Mary -Io's red head was on the desk now and she had begun to cry. I'm sorry, Mr. Busby, she choked. I didn't think you would ever know. They were such unknown poems that a friend of Uncle Kim's wrote. I only wanted you to like me a little. You've a queer way, said Mr. Busby dryly, of showing your need for affection. Toying with the shabby little book of poems, Mr. Busby remembered Miss Hanley's precise voice when she had said, 1 feel sorry for the child, in a wayf, She appeared such a forlorn, neglected little creature before him now, that Mr. Busby could see his Aunt's point. Mary Jo was not the aggressive, conceited little snip he had known now. She was a lonely, bewildered child, whose uncle's interest seemed to stop at a critical point, and who needed the love and guidance of the parents she had not. How old are you, Mary jo? asked Mr. Busby, not unkindly. Mary ,Io raised a drawn, tear-drenched face. S-sixteen, she stammered. Well, take your book and don't be careless and leave it on your desk after this when you leave a class, he suggested. Mary jo's brown eyes were hopefully unbelieving. You won't expel me then? You aren't going to write Uncle Kim about me? I'll give the prize back, Mr. Busby. Can't you fix it some way? I'll try, said Mr. Busby grimly. General Liferary Sevfiml 1 PAGE 19

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mused someone aloud. Mr. Busby nodded and recorded a mark against the name. Now I have a lor of material to cover today, he told them when he had finished roll call. Today I will give my instructions as to behavior, class work, and study hours and explain my methods of grading. Tomorrow we can begin our regular lessons once more. Mr. Busby had reached behavior rule No. 9 when the door rattled and an annoyed treble, accompanied by the bang of the book falling to the floor, flooded the room. Oh, heck, said a voice, Oh, darn. In the front row one girl nudged another, and thirty pairs of startled eyes turned toward the door. In those eyes there was admiration, astonishment, and something like envy. How Mary Jo Benton always achieved the desired and unusual effects in every- thing she attempted was a source of unending mystery to the girls at Miss Hanley's school. Mary Jo had boasted that the new teacher would like her--more specifically that she would be A. Busby's pet, and the English IV class believed her implicitly. They had expected her to be prompt on this day, so that she might gain the new teacher's approval. But Mary jo never took the expected course. A part of the English IV class now began to comprehend faintly an inkling of Mary Jo's reasoning, she had wanted attention, whether unfavorable or not, thus she had arrived ten minutes late, when he had expressly requested that the class appear on time. Mr. Busby frowned at the unwelcome interruption and regarded the slight, red-haired girl with too much lipstick, who was just entering the room, with extreme disapproval. Mary Jo Benton, I presume, he said. Please be seated. Mary Jo sat with a rustling of her skirts and a vigorous chewing of her gum. She tossed her bright curls, extracted a pencil and sat stiffly at attention, something insolent in her gold flecked eyes. Mr. Busby was a tolerant man with children, but he sensed that here was an unusually disagreeable child. I announced especially that I wished my class to be on time this afternoon, he announced curtly. I suppose you have an explanation of your delay. Mary Jo transferred her generous wad of chewing gum from one cheek to the other and crossed her slim, silken clad legs. I had a soda on the way, she announced smugly. It was such a lovely soda! Her tone implied to Mr. Busby that she was laughing at him, that she was attempting to shake his habitual dignity before this class of critical girls. In such cases, Mr. Busby had been used to retaining his temper and calm, no matter how nettled he might be. Completely ignoring the flippancy of her reply, he adjusted his notes and proceeded with his instructions, only, his glance wandered impersonally to Mary jo after a moment. Throw away your gum, he ordered, interrupting behavior rule No. 14. Mr. Busby sat in his imposing office with his efficient aunt, Miss Hanley, watching her as she corrected smudgy examination papers with a firm red pencil. And how do you like teaching in a girls' school? asked Miss Hanley, marking a bold F on a particularly unkempt sheet. Are my students all right? Hm, replied Busby noncommittally. Who's this Mary jo Benton person, Aunt Hattie? Aunt Hattie's mouth sat in grimmer, firmer lines. What's that girl done now, she asked exasperatedly. She's really the school's worst trial. The girls worship her because she's got what they call nerve. She quarrels with all the teachers. She shan't, declared Mr. Busby, quarrel with me. An only child, I suppose, and pampered to death by fond parents. Miss Hanley pursed her straight lips now, and deliberated over a scrawled page. It was a matter of pride with her that she knew the intimate businesses and history of every family whose girls attended her select school. Mary jo's uncle is an explorer, I believe, she told her nephew. She's an orphan and has been in boarding schools all her life. The uncle has enough money to educate her well, General Literary Section 1 PAGE 18

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Uncle Kim would be awfully mad if I were expelled, said Mary Jo. I-Ie thinks I do so badly in school anyway. I'll try ever so hard now, if only you'll give me a chance. At the door Mary jo stopped and looked back a little fearfully. I'm sorry I'm always late, she apologized quickly. I won't be now. Then she was walking back toward Mr. Busby's desk once more. Thank you, she repeated breathlessly. After the way I've acted, why are you doing this for me, Mr. Busby? Mr. Busby drummed on the desk with a slender, yellow pencil, I have a sister, hc contemplated sternly, yet with a certain gentleness, too, who is sixteen. WILLA BLAKE '35 Yrvlea High School. WIND OF THE HILL No one can tell me, Nobody knows, Where the wind comes from, Where the wind goes. It's flying from somewhere As fast as it can, I couldn't keep up with it, Not if I ran. But if I stopped holding The string of my kite It would blow with the wind For a day and a night. And then when I found it, W'herever it blew, I should know that the wind I-Iad been going there too. So then I could tell them Where the wind goes, But where the wind comes from Nobody knows. NVINII-iRIiD ALLQXANDHR '34 W4'1'rf High Srlmof. Gwzrnzl l.ifc'rurySr'c'Iim1 1 Pixuii 20