St Joseph Academy - Sajoscript Yearbook (Columbus, OH)

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SANDALPHON Class Poem DIARY llIARG.xRn'1' Donn Graduate The perfume from Nature's frail censers Which swing in the breezes of May, Ne'er carried a lovelier message Than pulsed through Life's harp strings Each strain told the harpist a story, That promised a future so fair, And far distant star world re-echoed Each theme of love, sorrow, or care. The lilt of life's young tender springtime Sang songs of earth's happiest years, But laughter that rolled on like wavelets Oft died midst the low moan of tears. Then Loyalty, fair and e'er royal, A passionate, glorious strain, Brought joy to the heart of the harpist, So exquisite was the refrain. Now low came a sweet lovely message, As soft as the coo of a dove, VVhich whispered as onward it traveled, Love God, He is Good, He is Love. Some deep minor chords then resounded, Each vibrant with fear or with pain Concealing oft life's bright horizon By clouds that grew sullen with rain. Anon in a fairy waltz rhythmic Came Gratitude, comely and shy, Close followed a measured andante And Faith, with bright torch glided by. Again ere the harp ceased its playing, 'Twas stirred by two martial refrains And Honor and Truth, valiant soldiers, Marched on with their glorious trains. The harpist, our own Alma Mater, Who thus to her children e'er sings, Has taught us, may hers be the glory, A life song of beautiful things. today page one hundred forty one

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S A N D A L P H 0 N Class Prophecy FRANCES BRADLEY, .,' Graduate HE last goodbyes were said, all the available rice in thc city thrown after the departing couple, as Catherine Lyons and her husband, a tall dark man, drove away on their wedding trip. NVith a small portion of wedding cake in my hand, I left the scene of the festivities a11d went home. Determined to test the morse1's traditional power in the land of nod, I placed it, that night, with the utmost confidence, under my pillow, hoping to dream of all sorts of romantic knights and princes, but little did I bargain for the most complicated and hectic dream of my life. At first I seemed to be in the Coliseum up at the Fair Grounds, and while I watched some exhibition or other, a group of dancers, i11 typical Spanish cos- tumes, glided in, and they, with their leader, who to llly surprise, was my old school chum, Dorothy Young, began a marvelous interpretation of El Jamon y el IIuevo , which Dorothy told me afterwards was her ow11 creation. She told me to be sure to see Gertrude Dehner and Elizabeth McDonald before I left the Fair, as they were handling the Art Exhibit that year and each had several portraits and drawings which were attracting much attention from the public. Then, as dreams do sometimes, the scene shifted, and I was on an ocean liner bound for India. There were several girls of my class at St. Joseph's on beard, sailing for diiferent places. Mildred Douglas was on her way to Ger- many and Italy, accompanied by Margaret Jennings both of whom frequently entertained their fellow-passengers with some clever violin duets which had just taken New York by storm. The other two girls, Margaret Zettler and Dorothy Hill, had just received their degrees at Trinity College, NVashington, D. C., and were now bound for Europe, Dorothy to attend the University of Paris, to begin the study of Criminal Law, and Margaret preparing to continue her music at the very conservatory where, Mozart himself had been a pupil. llippity-hopping along the deck, the fimoonlight silhouetted to me very clearly, two young people who were waxing eloquent on the wondrous night. The path of the moon over the dark sea rippled and shone gloriously. It was truly a night for romance, and the, two figures, on closer inspection, proved to be a young woman in the official garb of the Red Cross Nurse, her blue cape Hung over one shoulder, and the Captain's son. As I approached, I heard a merry voice say, Oh, David, how 'cu-et' -so I knew that it was Mary Mar- garet Dodd, even though I had not recognized her. After my arrival in India, I treked through the interior and one day came upon a most curious sight. Standing knee high in tall grass, and waving a. squirrel skin triumphantly in the air, was Eleanor Maurer. She was dressed in a white linen coat and knickers, and had a vicious-looking rifle slung over her shoulder. Eleanor said she was having the time of her life, and had so many squirrel skins around her cabin that she was thinking of sending them all to the Fuzzy Fur Factory in Labrador, now operated by Elizabeth Enright. All at once I was back home again and seated at my usual table in Lazarus' Tea Room. As I waited for my order, Mary Catherine Green sauntered in and at my invitation joined me. She was quite enthused about her latest achieve- ment-a book entitled Marvellous Cure for Stammerersf' just olf the press. Mary Catherine asked me if I had seen the latest copy of Vanity Fair. Since I had not, she showed me hers, and on the front pages, among the theatrical page one hundred forty-three