Spartanburg High School - Spartana Yearbook (Spartanburg, SC)

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24 The Scribbler REFLECTIONS OF A MODERN SIR ROGER HAVE a very queer friend, a man of peculiar ideas. We have talked on the most ancient and modern subjects together, and I always find that he has interesting thoughts concerning them. Not very long ago, when we were discussing the marvelous inventions of the radio, he broke into the subject abruptly, saying, “What do you think of the modern-day public powderers ?” I was astonished at such a question. So I remained silent, while he continued, “Everywhere I go among women I am constantly seeing that little round pink cloth, called a powder puff, brought into view. The ladies take this out every few minutes and powder their noses, which get whiter and more powdery each time. When a stranger comes into the room, it seems that every girl turn aside to apply one more coat of powder before meeting the person. I see these “puffs” again brought forth on the street. Every corner seems to be the appointed place for a new pat of powder. They powder for all occasions and at all places, whether going swimming or to the theatre. They say that it is even practiced in school by the younger ladies.” Then, with a laugh, he dropped the subject, saying, “These are wise women. Their ancestors in the time of Queen Elizabeth took all the morning to make themselves beautiful. Our girls catch beauty on the fly and look as perfect as they did long ago.” Elford Morgan, ’23.

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The Scribbler 23 Know all by these presents, that this is our last will and testament. Sworn to before me this ninth day of June, 1922. Maude Duncan, ’22. --------------o------------- THE RIVER In early morning freshly flows he forth. The sparkling splash of sunlit ripples sing A song that fills the heart of fishermen. The flashing diamonds on the trees reflect The dancing slits of morning sunlight clear, And form a sil’vry arch of swaying bows That dip and splash amongst the swirling waves. In midday when the others are asleep, He slowly winds his way along the path That is beneath the broiling, blinding sun A dusty scorched and burning place of heat, Cooled only by his shaded peacefulness. Beneath a silver moon he creeps amongst The shadows dancing on his bouyant breast. The sleepy willows softly rock as if A babe was folded in their swaying arms. While all the world in solemn silence lies, The sinking moon denotes the sparkling dawn. Fanning Hearon, ’23.

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Rising Seniors