West Side High School - Legenda Yearbook (Saginaw, MI)

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gathered around him and stared at the figure of the old man who now lay on his side as if in a peaceful sleep. Sing wasted no more time but ran as quietly as possible to the door of the temple where he saw crouched in a far corner a figure in a yellow robe. Sing drew his dagger and advanced slowly towards the huddled object. He grasped the man ' s shoulder and jerked him to his feet only to have him crumple into a heap again. He turned him roughly over, saw the glassy eyes and wounded side and threw him back to the floor. Too late for vengeance, and again the mourner. Sing turned to the altar where the ever- burning joss sticks sent up their spirals of pungent, blue smoke, and prayed. Then rising, dry-eyed and with an emotionless face, he called to his men and went forth into the dawn.

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THE YELLOW ROBE BRUCE FAYERWEATHER, ' 25 It was a dark, murky night, and through the length and breadth of Pell Street pedestrians were few. In fact, all but a few of the Orientals were resting in their homes after the toil of the day. However, several stooped figures scurried along over the clammy pavements, shield- ing their bodies as best they could from the shifting banks of fog which drifted through the heavy air. Although this quarter of Chinatown seemed deserted, down in Sen Fu ' s gambling house and general assembly hall the scum of the yellow population was gathered preparatory to the ceremony of the monthly tribunals over which Hsu Lee was to preside in judgment of the latest offender of the Buddhist laws. Among the many prisoners were several murderers, members of a once powerful but now nearly extinct organization which had been a source of profit to its members. These men were often unscrupulous and savage, and would stop at nothing to further their own ends. Thus the trying of these malefactors was a source of interest for all the celestial population. Young Sing Lee stood near the door of the inner chamber, glancing with narrowed eyelids over the seething whirlpool of Orientals. His was not the errand of the ordinary street loafer, the craze of excitement, but the love of his father who, as chief of the San Tsingtong, was to sit as tribune of this court. To the casual observer, there appeared to be no danger in holding this office ; but to one who knew the changeable character of the mass of spectators here gath- ered, it assumed great importance. He started as a man brushed by him dressed in the ancient garb of his father ' s tong. Who was this man? Why was he leaving the council chamber at this time? Surely not San Tsing, he thought to himself. But where had he found his robe of which there were only three in the possession of the tong? He pondered upon this matter for a few minutes and then dismissed it from his mind, for the crier was announcing the opening of the court. In two minutes from this time let every man be silent in honor and respect of our great judge, Hsu Lee, who will preside over this, the most high seat of the will of the Dragon in America, he shouted and disappeared. A long wavering cry rang, over, above, and through the din of the assembled crowd. A hush, and again it shrilled quavering, echoing from every corner of the room. Then another man appeared upon the dais and waving his arms, shrieked to the assembly: Away and avenge! While we have delayed, an escaping prisoner has taken the life of one of our greatest friends, Hsu Lee. Away, ye Sons of Buddha, and avenge! First murmuring, rumbling, and at last thundering, as the full meaning of their loss broke upon their minds, with a bound as one man the assemblage crowded from the room, leaving Sing standing bewildered and dumb, stunned by the news he had just heard. With a strangled sob the truth of what had happened fell upon him and he staggered a few feet and fell claw- ing at the floor like a man in mortal agony. And indeed he was, for to him his father had been as his own body and soul. Suddenly he sprang to his feet. He had remembered the man ' s yellow spotted robe identi- cal with his father ' s. With a dash he turned and hastened to the inner room where his father ' s retainers stood sorrowing by the side of their loved master. He gently turned down the cov- ering from his father ' s body. It was as he had guessed, the robe had been removed. He turned to where the tongsmen stood regarding him with beady eyes dimmed with sorrow. Men, he said, leave one of your number with my poor father and the rest of you come with me. The men sorrowfully obeyed, and soon followed by his small band, he was threading the dark and crooked alleys of Chinatown, searching for the murderer of his father. Handicapped by the fact that there were so few people on the streets, he had some trouble in tracing the stranger, but always was able to find some person who had noticed his yellow garments. On- ward they struggled through the slimy, offal-filled byways, often losing courage but always strengthened to their purpose by the thought of the still form lying behind them, its magnificent spirit broken, and its spark of life forever fled. At last after hours of wandering, they lost the trail near a small secluded temple, where exhausted after the night ' s exertion, the little band decided to rest. Coming upon the temple by an old and unused route. Sing stumbled over a form in the semi-darkness. He at first thought it one of the many beggars who filled the streets; but as the figure made no move or cry, he stooped and peered at the features of the midnight sleeper. He drew backward with a little cry, for it was the body of the temple priest. After a moment ' s hesitation he again bent over the body of the old man. Was life enclosed within that wasted form? His eyelids moved, he opened his eyes and stared, and then in a tone that was more of a whisper than speech said, i ellow robe, and died. Sing stood for a moment gazing upon him and pondering his words, then with a sigh laid the old priest gently down upon the ground. As he did so, he noticed a spot of red upon the old man ' s shrunken chest. He touched it and drawmg up his fingers saw, in the fast increasing light, that it was blood. The trail of the murderer! he gasped. His men

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CLASS OF ' 23 LOIS ORR Dear old High School, we ' re leaving — This class of twenty-three — We ' re leaving, for better or for worse, To seek out Life ' s Decree. For some, school days aren ' t over; For other, all, all o ' er. They have reached the great Beginning, The cavernous opening of Destiny ' s door. We leave behind us, workers, toilers — The class of twenty-four — And following in their studious pathway Comes the wandering, innocent Sophomore. We leave behind, our hopes and fears. Our work and all our places. Which now we leave with unshed tears To the class now in Junior ' s traces. You ' ll hear from us, you ' ll hear our names Rung o ' er the earth on some great day. After we ' ve fought and battled for the Fames Of Life — and won our way. Lewis and Ross and Comstock and Joe, (There are two of the latter boys, you know) Hart and Snyder and the ' Dusi boys. Have all enjoyed four years of joys Of football, as those joys go. There ' s Norton, too, with his curly hair. And Lovette and Murray are always there. Then there ' s the Elocutionists, Abie and Lehr And ' Talia and Don and Winslow, who say What has to be said in a manner quite gay; They ' re got what ' s needed to win their way. There ' s Marian, the Manager of the Criterion Staff, And Merrill McDonald who edits the laugh. Then there ' s Mclntyre and Baumgarten, too. Who help to put our paper through. And Dorothy Jane, and Needham and Lehr, Have all pitched in and done their share. We ' ve worked; we ' ve played, these last four years. And now, when we say Good-bye, What wonder that we hide a tear; That we heave a mournful sigh? That other class, the Sophomores, Think it queer, they say. But when they leave their present bores. They ' ll feel just this same way.