Southwest High School - Roundup Yearbook (St Louis, MO)

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I know, smiled Greg. That's partly why I'm doing this. My life has been the 'Taming of the Shrew' in reverse. Now, I'm assuming control of this family. Suddenly, his face took on an enigmatic expression, one that Max could not decipher. Max, I've changed my mind. I will read Brookfield's script. I think I know just how to cast it, too. Six months later came another opening night, but this time Greg was in the audience. An announcement had been made to the effect that he was too ill to appear. His understudy, considerably younger and quite unknown to anyone present, was capably filling in. No one seemed to disapprove of the substitution. During the intermission, Greg wandered through the crowd. It was nice to be on the outside for a change. He heard snatches of conversation praising the new actor, and highly pleased, he returned to his seat in the box. Then, the final act. Greg sat with his fingers crossed, thinking, They must like him, they must. As the curtain fell, resounding applause brought tears to Greg's eyes. He overheard two of the newspapermen commending his understudy. Ya know, Bill, it's really a shame about tonight. That guy was just a little too good for Lawrence to be able to take. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he disappeared soon. He isn't a kid anymore. Yes, I think tonight marks a historic event. Let's go celebrate. I was just thinking that myself. Come on. As he walked toward Max, Greg's shoulders straightened just a wee bit, and a smile settled on his face. In addition to himself only Max and Myra knew that his understudy had been-his own son. He turned, and with a final glance at the theater said, Farewell, Broadway. I'm leaving you in good hands. Then, with a glance toward the stage door, Good luck, Junior. Pat Henn...l'1er Helping Pop was judged best in the essay division. Slcaron Sack . . . her short lilorcncc Struck . . . she is the story Final CUFIU1.U, rated first author of Voices, thc prizcwm in the 1949 yearbook contest. ning poem. Ninclecrv

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FINAL CURTAIN BY SHARON SACK Applause broke the web of intensity which had hung over the theater almost from the opening lines. Even hardened critics were engrossed as Gregory Lawrence added still another triumph to his credit. It was true that the plot might have been a bit more original, however, the Idol of Broadway had again thrilled first-nighters with his performance. Wistful women gazed pityingly-some even resentfully--at their bald pudgy husbands and sighed resignedly. Oh, to change places with Myra, his wife. She must be proud indeed to have such a husband. Many such romantic thoughts were hurriedly concluded as the theater-goers sauntered casually into the massive lobby, pausing only long enough to be viewed in their new attire. Backstage, the star of Intrigue was duly congratulated, photo- graphed, and discussed. After the audience had departed, a young ingenue from the cast approached him and confided, Mr, Lawrence, you Were- well, just superb. I hope that when I reach your age, I'm as good. It must be wonderful to be a star and visit all the famous cities, choose your own plays, and just do whatever you please. What? Oh, yes, of course, he absently replied. Thank you. Upon reaching his dressing room, Gregory studied his face intently before a mirror. My age! Why, I'm only 42. He chuckled. Yes, for the seventh straight year. I wonder how long this can continue. Soon a youngster will come along, and I'll be out of the public eye. He sighed then, recalling his younger days spent in a tiny town in Indiana, whose population could easily fit in the spacious Regency The- ater , where he had appeared tonight. Why on earth did I become an actor! Diets, directors, scripts, pub- licity-absolutely no freedom. And Myra! Even Job would have lost his temper had he married her! Is my career worth all this? I'm beginning to wonder. While thus meditating, he was interrupted by the explosive entrance of Max Reardon, his agent. Greg, you were magnificent. The play itself is lousy, but you put it across. I figure it'll clo-se in about two months. You can't guess what will happen then. Richard W. Brookfield Wants you in Lady's Gentle- man. That guy's as Iinicky as Shaw. Imagine! You're gonna be in a Brookfield play. It's a comedy, too. You said you were tired of these heavy roles. Myra's out there already, gushing over 'deah Mr. Brookf1eld'. Myra's manner was equally disturbing to Max. He had arranged the marriage to further Greg's career, as Myra had backed their first show. Max was still apologizing. At that time, Greg's name had been Potter. Myra bestowed his present one upon him. She thought Potter too crude for words . Not that Greg minded. Lawrence did look better in lights and Myra had wanted it. Myra had wanted quite a bit in the twenty-five years of their married life. He was not a little tired of giving in to her whims. Well, broke in Max, when can you read the script ? Max, I'm afraid I won't be reading any more scripts. I hate to do this to you, but you can get another job. Sheila Patterson has been at sixes and sevens with Jeffries for over a year now. If you catch her in the right mood, you're all set. Greg, are you serious? Max exclaimed, an expression of disbelief registered on his face. Myra will throw a fit. Eighteen

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VOICES By FLORENE STRUCK There are voices around us Not everyone hears, Voices with laughter And voices with tears: Some telling secrets- W'hispering low 5 Others speaking of Things we all know. The rumbling of thunder Low in the sky Tells that it's angry But won't say whyg The patter of rain As it falls on the leaves Playing with people As 'round them it weavesg The voice of a bird Proud of its nest Must tell the other Why his is the best: The ever-bubbling laughter Of countryside brooksg Voices of rabbits Hidden in nooksg Rustling of branches Of tall splendrous trees, As one tells another All that it seesg Sun-tinted flowers Drink morning dew And in fragile beauty Reflect the sky's blueg The weak frightened voice Of some playful fawn As it discovers An enemy looks on. Mother Nature gave voices For work and for play, To each of her creatures To use his own way. SUNRISE BY .FAHY ANNETTE BAKER Purple mist, Sunbeams mellow, Gray mist, Sunbeams yellow, Sun rises, Sunbeams follow, 'Till they crown the sun above the hollow 1Accepted for publication and given HONORABLE MENTION by the Nat onal H1 h School Poetry Twenty Associationj