More of Don's
photo series.
Mark My Word!
By RAY MARKMe again. Yes, dear friends, Mr. Leslie just wouldn't permit me to quit. It seems he just can't get along without this column -- that it is just what he needs. Leaving you to figure out the above puzzling puzzle, my typewriter and I will proceed to further small talk.
Last week was large. Very large, indeed; filled to the brim with good things. Class night, Baccalaureate service, and commencement exercises were events that studded our nights with all-star personalities and activities.
I greatly enjoyed all of them, except the one thng I failed to mention. That stuff called examinations by teachers and just plain nightmares by the people they're teaching. Miss Woods was so ashamed of the severity of the test she had prepared for the enjoyment of the Ameircan histry classes that she stayed away and Miss Rotter gave the test for her. Couldn't look us in our hones faces, huh, Miss Woods?
Let us now proceed to that Friday designated as class night. I'm really sorry about that. If I'd a-known it was a dress-up shindig, I'd a wore mah shoes. But I had a swell time. Mah feet felt fine.
Highlights of Class NightThe whistling the girls did when Don Love stepped forward to secede his office; the laugh A. Rogers' [sic] line about Don's bitter half got. The Jersey-bouncing boys who make up Auburn's swing band, and their songstress, torch singer, Mary Bradford. Jada's picture hat, plus story-book loveliness. Uncle Sam's bodyguard was doubtless appreciative, too. Messrs. Chadwick, Loan and Company -- Hecklers, Inc.
Presenting as effective opposite to the informality of clas night was the sober impressiveness of the baccalaureate service. Reverend Leonard's oratory instructed the class of '42, and those of us who just listened in learned much of benefit, too. The well-filled auditorium gave evidence to the interest the service had aroused.
All in all, it's been a memebable [sic] week for Auburn high school.
Speaking of Auburn, what's new here? Anything? They say what you don't know won't hurt you, but what I don't know is going to hurt this column, and if this column gtets hurt any more, it's going to die a horrible death. So start talkin'!
Thank youse.
FROM THE AUBURN (WASHINGTON) GLOBE-REPUBLICAN, MAY 29, 1942