West High School - Hesperian Yearbook (Minneapolis, MN)

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GYPSYING Comes a call .... Strong as the throbbing floods of spring Over the rock beds foaming. Strange as the plaintive notes that bring The heart from the wildest birds that sing; That is all, A gypsy heart is roaming. Comes a call .... Sweet as the scent of fading flowers. Secret as the gloaming; Cradling the heart through quiet hours In the lulling lap of summer showers That fall, A gypsy heart is homing. Agnes Turner. PREFACE TO A JAZZ DICTIONARY I N hope of gaining renown for that which its own nature forbids to be of ' general use. I have devoted this book, the product of several modern “teen” minds, to the teachers of the country, trusting that it will enable them to more readily translate and assimilate the thoughts which modern students expound during the course of an ordinary conversation. Not wishing to conflict with my contemporaries, I have debarred from my dictionary all words which have heretofore been regarded as the tools of the literary and business worlds, unless these words have come into usage thoroughly disguised, as has the adjective keen” of late returned in the form of a noun to puzzle the minds of the grammarians as to the constitutionality (grammatically speaking) of the popular colloquialism. There’s the keen. Therefore, I dedicate this book, in the hope of simplifying the art of pedagogy, to those who, due to lack of proper association and environment, have failed to become proficient in the twentieth-century art of draping the line. Wishing also to give proper recognition to the patron who has been the immediate inspiration of this work, through constant looks of awe when confronted in class by the phraseology of her youthful subjects, I hereby especially dedicate this book to Miss Edith M. Penney, who as hitherto stated has made me realize the necessity of such a volume. Trusting that this work will dispel the clouds of despair. I ask to remain, Her Ladyship’s most obedient (sometimes) and most humble servant, GOODENOW R. WINTER. Page 14

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MARTIAN LEARNING (Being an excerpt from the novel, Looking Down,” by Snosrap Yeldud. Edited by E. Dudley Parsons.) (( A ND what are they?” asked the Martian. They are students,” I replied, focussing the etherscope upon West High School, and putting the etherphone attachments on our heads. ‘Students? What are students?” “They are boys and girls who run from room to room in the great building that you see and tell persons called teachers what facts they have gleaned. Do these students learn to think by this method? No. There are too many of them for that. A student now and again forms independent opinions. Usually they think what their teachers think and the teachers don’t think much because they were trained in the same way.” We could never tolerate a system like that! How do you teach your young? No one can be taught; he must teach himself, chiefly through observation. No one teaches a baby to rub his eyes, to walk or to talk. Every child on our planet is guaranteed not only sustenance but opportunity to learn. In fact, we make it easier to learn than not to learn. In every neighborhood there is a playground, workshop, garden, picture-gallery, laboratory, museum, music-hall and library. Therefore our children reason about scientific, artistic, literary, or mechanical matters as easily as your children reason about their play. Or do your children reason? Oh yes. outside of school they do. As infants they are often wonderful with imagination and joy, quick in observing, ready at response. One of our philosophers has said that they come into being with memories of a former and richer experience, ‘trailing clouds of glory,’ but that as they grow into the cares of our earth, ‘shades of the prison-house begin to close’ upon them. At any rate they begin to lose originality as they become older. What do you Martians do about your higher education? There is no ‘higher education' any more than there is a ‘higher’ thought, ‘higher’ beauty, ‘higher’ love. These savages, as you called the denizens of the jungle that you showed me yesterday, were doing as reasonable things as your West High students—feasting, decorating themselves and chattering —and they seem to be building and destroying without so much self-conscious worry as what your civilized people betray. And you? I asked. Ah, we Martians solved the problem of living so many ages ago that what you show me of the earth is almost unbelievable-----cities where people starve, while a little distance away, farmers burn food. Electric heat, light, and power passing over the heads of millions who crave these boons; the careful salvation of idiots, while your best young men are slaughtered in meaningless war, or heedless industry; laughter smothered by murderous assault and song choked by pain. And you? I repeated. We are the angels of whom you dream dimly. Of us your little children have heart-knowledge and are happy. Among us nature moves with calm, and life is balanced. -------- Page 13

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TEA WE were lounging idly before a roaring fire in my English friend’s comfortable home near London. The house was, as he was, typically English. The chairs, the table, the tea kettle, the blue china cups, were all unmistakably English. I had a feeling that all 1 needed was a red muffler round my neck and a pair of silver buckles on my shoes to be an accurate Dickens character. But nevertheless, I had had a fine, a well-er-comfortable dinner, you know. I had no doubts about it. 1 was beginning to feel that delicious warmth and content that radiated from the fire, overpower me and slightly numb my consciousness, but 1 was fully determined to keep my mind on my friend’s conversation. “I say, Hal, what are you thinking about?’’ This question, seemingly out of a void, roused me again to life. “What I shall dream about tonight,” I responded foggily. “1 say, Hal, don’t you think you'd better have another cup of tea?” I declined with a shake of the head which caused me an effort. The Englishman believes his beastly tea to be a remedy for everything. It's even a stimulantl “Do you always plan your dreams? asked my friend. “Always, 1 replied, but sometimes they forget to follow the plan. How strange, murmured my friend, and in the midst of wondering whether he meant my plans or the fact that the dreams sometimes refused to obey me, I was startled by hearing the same exclamation uttered in an entirely different voice. How strange! said the voice. 1 sat up hurriedly and with a suddenness that made my head throb. Standing in the doorway, with a dark cape thrown over his shoulders, was a tall man whose features I could not distinctly make out. May 1 ask what is so strange to you? 1 demanded brusquely of this intruder. He made no answer but gazed fixedly at my companion and then advanced with outstretched hand. Bobby Thornton ! To find you here! Bobby seized his whiskers in one hand and the stranger’s fingers with the other and gazed into his eyes. “Max! he said in a hoarse whisper, Max Nicovai from the south of Russia! As the man advanced into the firelight, I saw a remarkable face. Black waving hair tossed back from a high, broad forehead, level brows, and clear-cut features. But his eyes as he glanced at me' seemed to send a shudder to my very heart. They were hot gray, black-rimmed, filled with a tragic intensity of feeling and set in a white mask of a face. My friend Thornton came out of his trance and presented me to Nicovai and we all sat around the fire and sipped luke-warm tea. Nicovai spoke in sentences or rather half-sentences that left them to your imagination to fill out. 1 met Max on that Russian adventure 1 told you about, Hal. said my friend; he was the young gentleman who secured the boat and maneuvered me down the river that memorable night. Can 1 do something for you, Max? Yes. replied the Russian, passing his long white fingers through his hair, strange to come to you. There is trouble. A shipment of goods sent Page 15