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

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fighting for his country. And perhaps it was a good thing that he died. For then Amelia never need know that George Osborne didn't love herg at least not as much as he loved himself, clothes, money, Wine, and Women like Becky Sharp. Right here it is only fit that I introduce William Dobbin. There is one like him in every crowd, big, ox-like, not too bright, but willing to do anything for a friend. I need not say much about Dobbin, except that he loved Amelia with every bit of his big heart. And now back to Becky . . . but I cannot go on forever! After all there are sixty-four chapters, seven hundred fifty-four pages, to this play. How long would it take me to tell the Whole storyg to reveal all the characters to their fullest extent? So I will just say that beguiling Becky, by slightly devious methods, climbs the ladder of London society all the way to the topmost rung, past even her noble husband. I will say, too, that Amelia becomes a pitiful figure, not because of her poverty, but because of her extreme loneliness. Fortunately, however, the conclusion brings poetic justice and Amelia and Dobbin live happily ever after. As for Becky. . .she finds that itls a long climb up, but a short fall down. A FIRE By DICK K1RscHTEN Wz'llowy wisps of smoke float like a mist: Dashing darting dots of orange and yellow dance about. Flashing fingers of flame reach skyward, a glowing hand in the dark. Crisp crackling crimson flames roar like a storm. Sirens soon scream alerting the night of its danger, Dying embers spit forth steaming clouds of indignation. Streams of water, a killing blanket smother the blaze. MY CITY By CLAUDEAN KING The sun loves my city, too! It comes beaming on the men and their brooms, Cleaning her pathways, dirty with millions of footprints. Footprints of the milkman, clanking, clinking through his routeg The grocer, feeding my city's people, the salesman, selling her produce: The teacher, guiding my city's future leadersg The housewife, gaily preparing for the return of her husband. The sun comes to rest for lunch right above my city. Her people rush, run, scatter, scramble through her streets. After work my city's people rush home in clanging streetcars, Rambling busses, beeping taxis, cars with screeching brakes. The sun sets on my city with an extra radiance, it seems. Then the moon shines, brightly reflected in the river on My city's border. Twenty-nine

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THACKERAYS VANITY FAIR Reviewed by JOAN BURGESS Did you ever see a puppet show? Were you amazed to see how some artist's nimble fingers could transform Wooden dolls into living, breathing persons? Shakespeare once said, All the world's a stage and all the men and women, merely players. Come with me then to Vanity Fair, the place where you get a double treat, the place where William Thackeray ably dangles his human puppets about on a glittering glamorous stage. Let us call the stage set London, although Vanity Fair can and does take place anywhere where there are human beings. The time is during the early 19th century when Napoleon had his greedy heart set on taking England. Our players-well, there are a variety of them, hypocrites, bullies, quacks, fools-every type of person is represented in Vanity Fair. There are nice people too...but you will meet them later. Now, the curtain rises. It is time for the play to begin. What is the matter, dear audience? You say you are bored with Vanity Fair? You say it has no plot, nov hero? You say it is nothing but a grotesque display of society, the characters' lines are meaningless and irrelevant? Let me give you a word of advice . . .dig deep into each line 5 look past the gaudy costumes and into the hearts of the characters, and you will see what a masterpiece Vanity Fair really is. In all fairness, I must explain to you that there isn't much of a plot. When the book was first written it was entitled Pen and Pencil Sketches of English Society and that is exactly what it is. The word sketches , however, hardly describes the rich, full portraits painted by Thackeray in his book. What little plot there is, centers around two girls, Becky Sharp, an impudent upstart of a nobody, and Miss Amelia Sedley, a young lady of beauty and graciousness. As the plot unfolds, these two friends, for they are friends at the beginning of the story, having both been graduated from Miss Pinkerton's finishing school, are heading for London to take up their respective places in society, one as a lady befitting her station, and one to be a governess in a highly esteemed London family. From this point on, the scene changes. Becky Sharp, a very ambitious girl, is loved and admired by her aged employer, Miss Crawley. That is, until she marries Miss Crawley's favorite nephew, Captain Rawdon Craw- ley, of His Majesty's army. Ah, yes, there is a great difference between a beloved servant and a niece by marriage. Need I say more? Is it necessary to say that Rawdon and his darling wife are banished from the Crawley house and the Crawley fortune forever? The idea! A Crawley married to a common girl! But now let us see what has happened to Amelia. Poor Amelia. Just a few hundred pages back she had been a radiant bride in London society, married to that gallant soldier, Lieutenant George Osborne. But now Amelia Osborne, widow, sits in her dreary house, willing to live only for the sake of her small son, so much like the dear departed George. What has happened? It is a short, but sad story. She was married. She was happy. Her father went bankrupt. George's father disinherited him because he married the daughter of a poor man. Amelia was sad but she still had her beloved George. George was sad but he still had his beloved George. Finally beloved George was killed, Twenty-eight

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Thirty A WISE OWL By PATRICIA LEE BARRY An old gray owl sat in a tree, Tears streaming from his big round eyes. Oh dear! Oh dear! said he to me, I deem we owls are not so wise. I've just found out a thing so true. It fills my heart with gloom. For years we've said 'To-who, to-who-ool' When we should have said 'To-whom!'. THE BEAUTY OF A WINTER'S NIGHT By PATRICIA WEISS What is the beauty of a winter's night? The crisp crunch of newly fallen snow? The fragile, silvery icicles That chime when a soft breeze blows? What is the beauty of a winter's night? The starry host that brightly gleams, The quietness of earth, God at hand-peace reigning. AUTUMNS DEATH By JOAN ZEPF Gusts of wind whip over barren countrysides, Ushering in winter-sweeping out autumn. What has become of the brightly tinted leaves- Gay, chirping birds-dainty, nodding flowers? Lonely, naked trees dot the hazy horizon, Forlornly swaying bare branches amidst dreary surroundings And there, gliding aimlessly toward earth, A desolute, shriveled leaf reaches its graveyard. Autumn had ended.