Wright High School - Chronicle Yearbook (New Orleans, LA)

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gray lines on the smooth white pa- per (which signified only another way of talking to herself) for fear she would stop thinking. Her fin- gers were cramped. Her head was beginning to feel very heavy and she was vaguely aware that all sounds above stairs had ceased, so the family must have gone to bed and the hour be late. Then the girl fell asleep. This is what she dreamed : Mary Smith! Mary Smith! Hurrah for Mary Smith ! the girls were crying. The clapping of hands gave way to the stamping of feet, and cheers rang through the hall. They were all tremendously proud, these girls, of one in their midst who had so distinguished her- self; they were carried away with hero-worship, they were proud of being her schoolmates, and subtly reminded each other of the times when one or another of them had done so and so together with her, or had been told such and such a thing by her — Then she appeared. Out between the curtains onto the front of the stage, in the center of the stage she stood. Always had she been there, in their midst, up above them where all could see, where all could admire, thrilling before their applause and holding the center of the stage. Very graciously, like a queen, she acknowledged their trib- utes. Then she spoke. It mattered not what she said, they ' d applaud again anyway, and so she thanked them for this and that and said what her teachers had told her to say, and did a great many other trivial things— that were expected of her — but always was she con- scious of her position, and the ad- miration and the applause. It had always been thus. A leader, whose utter disability to be anything but honest with herself prevented the dieveloping of a superior complex which, if pushed too far, might have proven disastrous to her suc- cess. Success? It meant nothing. Brilliance? Leadership? It was all bluff; she had fooled them all, fel- low-students, teachers, outsiders — everyone but herself. Self she could not fool. It made her uncom- fortable — took away some of the momentarily tremendous satisfac- tion, chilled some of her pride. All this without trying. Self persisted, no effort at all ! Just remembering that she must always bluff, bluff, bluff — until it became a habit and she did it instinctively. How much better might she have acquitted her- self if she had tried! How much more might she have accomplished for herself, if she had tried. Sud- denly the girl looked down. She seemed to be standing there before them all, entirely divested of her clothing. This sometimes happens in dreams; but she did not know she was dreaming. Startled and ashamed, she ran to hide herself. The corn crop of 1923 is estimat- ed by the government bureau of ag- ricultural economics at 24,702,000 bushels, on an area of 1,604,000 acares, with an average yield of 15.4 bushels. The total value amounts, to $20,937,000.

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DISSERTATION OF A FRIED WEENIE There once was a bow wow wow, Who always asked how how , how It would feel in a frying pan. He asked ' the cow cow cow, And he asked the meow meow meow. But they ' d never been in a frying pan. He asked the quack quack quack, Who answered back back back It was awful in a frying pan. But still that boW wow wow Had to know how how how It would feel in a frying pan. So he asked the pig pig pig. Who was no prig prig prig How it would feel in a frying pan. (And this is what the pig answ- ered.) ' T ' ve never been there, squealed the pig, But iplease don ' t think me a prig. When I tell you that all my fore- fathers Fried there along with all my fore- mothers. And my race is eons older than Sam. I descend from our ' great ' father Ham And Bacon was great uncle to me. He lived on an isle ' cross the sea. But my world-renowned fame, to- day On the seasoned weenie worsts lay Where you and your brothers shall come And together we ' ll be ground into ; one. (And here ' s the interesting part.) Into the hot, black, greasy. Frying Pan We are dumped right in to feed the great god man ! And that is how how how That little bow woow wow Learned how it felt in a frying pan. Detla Jinks. A PORTRAIT The girl sat quietly and gnawed her pen. Why did not inspiration come? Others received it, some abandoned it ; she has never known it. Sitting there, she felt sure that if once it did come to her, she could write, and it would be really good. But what could she write ? That was the point; the desire to do something, backed by an intelligent conception of where the ability lay must be neglected for lack of sub- ject. She was very sleepy. Her eyes half closed themselves and the paper before her became a blur. She dared not read even now what was already there; she dared not stop making -all those queer little

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A STRAWBERRY PATCH Bob Ellenworth was walking slowly along Poplar Avenue one hot summer afternoon when he had a sudden desire for some delicious strawberries. He was just in front of the deserted old Fillemore house where there was a patch of most beautiful berries. The temptation was too strong, so he lifted the latch and went in, but no sooner had he done so than the trouble began. As the gate closed, someone ran out of the strawberry patch into the house. Bob ran after him, maybe it was a tramp or someone on the same mission as himself, thought Bob, but anyway he followed. As he ran in the back door, he heard the other person running in the next room. The chase continued in one door out the other, but never did Bob get near enough to see the face of his victim. ' ' Who is it ? What does he want ? Why doesn ' t he stop ? Must be some titleholder for distance running, panted Bob. Just at this moment the person ran up the broad stair- case. Bob followed a few steps be- low. The runner stumbled and be- gan to fall and as he struck Bob he grabbed for the rail, but in vain, so down they came, landing in a bunch at the bottom of the stairs. Neither moved for a few minutes. Bob was the first to sit up and as he looked at his companion he saw not a boy from the town nor a tramp, but a girl. The girl opened her eyes then and such eyes as she had — they were of the darkest blue. Bob thought he had never seen such, eyes. ' ' Who are you? she asked slowly. Me — er — I — oh ! I am just Bob EUensworth, replied the surprised Bob. What made you frighten me: hke that? What are you doing here, anyway? Why, I came for strawberries, just as you did. And say, Who are you? I am Jamie, the daughter of Professor Fillemore, the last of the wScuthern Fillemores, the girl ans- wered proudly. She continued, I came here to- day to see about getting the house ready for father and me to occupy next week. That ' s why I am dressed this way. I never expected a visitor. I am sorry to have intruded, but , I never expected an occupant. Both of them laughed at this and. then the girl said, Come, let ' s get some of those lovely berries, ' am starved. No ! Let ' s go over to my house right next door. Mother would be delighted to meet the daughter of Professor Fillemore. We can get