Western High School - Westward Ho Yearbook (Baltimore, MD)

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WESTWARD I-IO 7 But you are 21 little dubious as to whether the . 'lfhere is another long see the proofs and eouse- Week in which to harbor worst is really over Week before you can quently another long' doubts and fears, as to the results of your labors. The sigh of relief which you had ex- pected to have after you left that terrible room with its blinding lights, will not eoine. Instead you turn to the girl beside you, and with a weary smile exelaini resignedly, And they say that Burke 'tests are the severest trials EL Senior must undergo ! llllvlosl, lmporfanl Occasion llmonq Us Sentara. Y' f 2 ,411 is so fm . 'jr' Ti ii X, 4 fl! IM ,I M l, C V gi it , Z , M -f I 57573 I U ,' L , .' lg f argl' V ' 'il . U 5 , wif- I f i rl v 'Y l if 'fi ill ,Wi f V IT, ' 9 , wif ll' ' nl 1 'lt , X ,N 1, N Q i? o A 4' ' - 1 sums! GD ING! GUNETW M -s--4mcigQ,j,3DJz:x--4' IN THE DAISIED HOLLOW Mary Elizabeth Sweeny, '29. ln the daisied hollow, Life again shall be, As the winds that follow The whisper of the sea, A long light from the shadow, A broad ray from the gloom, And then the April meadow Awakes with leagues of bloom. We've wintered with the weather, As light hearts will that go To make believe together That snow is not the snow. And now from shadows turning As turns the year, we leap With joy in bright eyes burning, Forgetting eyes that sleep. So shall the fortress darkened Along the Walks of life Be as a peace that's hearlcened Unto the buglecl strife. And out of sorrow straying, l..ove's clay shall still be sung, On lips of endless Nlaying And harps forever young.

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6 WESTXVARD I-IO After you have looked over so many photo- graphs that you begin to dread the sight of them, you awaken one bright morning with the realization that this is f'the day. Tomorrow at this time it will be all over. And you deny yourself your usual pleasure of lying abed to dream and meditate for about half an hour after you awaken. This particular morning you must allow yourself plenty of time to choose from your wardrobe a dress with a becoming collar, to put it on with unusual care, and to take special pains in arranging your hair. Small wonder that when one complaining Senior, who had had the date for the taking of her pictures postponed without previous notice, was asked, what difference it made to her, re- plied sullenly, 'fOh, T don't especially like the idea of getting up at six-thirty twice during one week. S Though you might agree with this young lady perfectly, you do not take time at such a critical moment to give the matter any consid- eration. You must concentrate with all your might and main on thevbusiness of getting dressed. After snatching hastily a bit of break- fast, and invoking the blessings of your family, you start off to school. Somehow or other the day passes, and the two-thirty bell sounds to you like the ringing of a death-knell. There is a grand scramble for the mirror, and combs and puffs are brought into vigorous play. Nevertheless all know per- fectly well that they will again arrange their hair, powder their noses, and adjust their col- lars to their satisfaction studio, when they reach the walk from school to The ride, or even the the studio is a short one, and by three oiclock you reach the scene of your severe trial. If the reader has been tempted, throughout the fore- going paragraphs, to repeat the world-famous expression Vanity, thy name is womanln she may now relieve herself of all restraint. At this point, if ever, does it apply perfectly. The small dressing-room becomes a virtual battlefield. All are anxious to monopolize the mirror at the dressing table. There is another reason, besides the mere desire to make your- self look your best, underlying your attraction to that dressing table. Cn it are two softly shaded lamps, so ingeniously contrived as to produce an effect that is very flattering to in the mirror. Your eyes more brilliant, your hair has and sparkle, and your skin of health and youth. f'The you sigh rapturously you whomever looks seem larger and an unusual gloss seems to breathe Magic Mirror! behold your transformed image. But there is no time to do much sighing. Through the thin curtains, draping the door which leads into the photographers room you shudderingly ob- tain a glimpse of the executioner herself, and her tools-an ominous looking camera, and some blinding lights. Someone is already seated on the bench there, struggling in vain to don that expression which she had so care- fully studied, and thoroughly mastered. Soon you, too, must face the ordeal. Your hair is finally arranged to your satis- faction, and apparently to the satisfaction of your friends. But what can your friends tell about your appearance? They are too busily engrossed in the task of making themselves look their best to give you a momentls con- sideration. Nevertheless, you take their word with innocent confidence, when without so much as a glance in your direction they fling the adjectives Hgreatf' Hadorablef' 'fdarlingu at you to satisfy your craving for their approba- tion. lt is four o'clock. Your head and shoulders ache from holding them in one position for so long 3 time, for who can tell what havoc may have been wrought in your appearance, if you had moved your head a hair's breadth. Your collar may have come out of position, or- heaven forbid l-your hair may have become disarranged. And now you march to the ordeal like gt martyr. The photographer smiles sweet- ly at you as you take your place before that awful black box. 'fVVhat ironyli' you say to yourself. Smiling at a time like this! But you do manage to smile back. You look to- ward the curtains for some sign of encourage- ment from your friends, who said they would be watching you from outside the door. You cannot see them, however, for the curtain is so arranged as to permit a clear view from the outside, but not from the inside of the studio. You resign yourself to your fate. The lights glare at you with unmerciful intensity. They seem to have driven from your mind all the pointers which you had gathered for this mo- ment,-your expression, the angle at which your head was to be turned. the proud tilt of the shoulders which you thought would look well in a picture. VVhy, T actually believe Tim frightened, you shamefully acknowledge to yourself. The photographer is uttering something about look- ing over in a certain direction, about keeping your left hand in your lap, and about forget- ting the nightmare that you seem to be think- ing of. In a surprisingly short time, you hear a click. It is all over, as the pleasant voice be-- hind the camera informs you. Yes, it is true. Your picture has been taken.

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Under False COlO1'S IC. lic DXVLING, '26, lfllf March wind blew lustily. Its keen, sharp blast penetrated even through the heavy fur wrap of S1 young girl who had just alighted from a street car, and who was now walking, with some difficulty the wind, northward on Connecti- cut Avenue. She shivered as the knife-keen cold pierced her, and drawing her luxurious coat still closer about her, hurried to the entrance of a nearby apartment house. Inside there was warmth and subdued light from soft-toned lamps glow- ing in the lobby, and with a sigh of relief the girl threw back her coat and -entered the elevator. Ten ffoors up she stepped from the elevator and in a few minutes she was standing in the cozy living room of her own little apartment. Carrie Marsden was tired, very tired, and she still felt, every now and then, a cold shiver as the howling wind blustered around the corner of the house, but the steam radiators in the apart- ment were hissing cheerfully, and the green and yellow love birds in their ornate cage in the Q ! E E ! i i in the face of sunniest window were singing blithely, and as she went to hang up her coat Carrie espied a and all letter and a package on the hall table, her weariness and cold vanished entirely. Today was her birthday. It seemed very queer to be away from home on her birthday. And Carrie. as she snuggled down in a nest of pillows on her soft couch, looked a trifle wistful, even though she had almost hated her home. lilagerly she opened her letter. The package she left for last, even as she had always left unopened long- est the bulkiest and most mysterious of Christ- mas bundles, hto have the fun of looking for- ward to them. The letter. just as she had thought, was a birthday letter from her hard- working mother at home in the little town, no, not town, community of Dalton. The beginning was full of tender messages and birthdav greet- ings, but the anxieties weighing upon the mind of the writer had evidently been too many and serious to allow the letter to be continued in such a tenor. lt set forth a situation which im- mediately changed Carrie's attitude of comfort and happiness. V 'fThings are not looking so good at home, wrote Carries mother. Your Ifncle -lacob's rheumatism is much worse, and he has gone to his sister's twhere he should have gone ages ago, muttered Carriej and left me without a mite of help on the farm. I'm mighty sorry vou couldn't send me any money, Carrie, but it does 8 seem like I can't go on another day without some. And the ,lersey is dead. I used to be able to make a little money on her milk, but now thats all gone, and honest, Carrie, things are awful. We can't get any coal. I only keep one stove going and old Trusty and I sit by it every night thinking of you, Carrie, darling, and wishing- but theres no use wishing that, I guess. Carrie dropped the letter and slowly opened the package. lt contained a gay, fancy pillow in the shape of a butterfiy. Carrie had a hobby of collecting strange pillows. On the couch where she now reclined was a plump, rose taffeta heart, edged with lacy ruiiles, and a cushion fashioned like the head of a Colonial lady, with powdered hair, patches and roguish blue eyes. Mother must have made the butterfly herself. That cre- tonne certainly savored of the Dalton country store! Carrie felt that she hated herself for that last thought. There was a smooth, rectangular package inside of the large one, and wondering, Carrie opened it. lfrom Uncle lake! The old man was considered quite an artist by his fellow countrymen who knew nothing whatever about art, and his work was rather good, albeit a little rough. ll'is old hand frequently trembled in ap- plying his brush, and his strokes lacked firmness and decisiveness, but his love and use of color always seemed to make up for his defects in technique. lle had done his best with the little sketch he had sent his niece for her birthday. liefore Carrie, in a poor frame, was a replica of her old home, low and brown and rambling. surrounded by a wid-e porch. There were cherry trees in the front yard and wistaria vines climb- ing over the porch, but Uncle .lake had not let his ideas of beauty eliminate sordid realism. There was also a broom on the front porch, a disreputable pump on the side, and a front gate hanging drunkenly by one hinge. f'At least he had sense enough to paint the old hut in summer and not in winter, muttered Carrie. The picture slid down to the fioor, but Car- rie did not heed it, She was thinking of home, home in the winter time. Ifghl It was awful. The Marsdens had alwavs arisen at dawn, cracked the ice that had formed in the wash basin, and dressed in the cold bleakness without a lamp. Carrie could see herself, attired in an unbecom- ing serge dress, with her hair in a tight braid. eating breakfast in the kitchen. The scene etched itself upon her mind with startling clear- ness. There was the battered old table with its red and white cloth and heavy china: the creak-