Arsenal Technical High School - Arsenal Cannon Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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AND HAVE YCU STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL Jimmy Quinn has words to spare When it comes to talking, heill be there. Every single golfing mutt Should watch our little Emma Putt. Second-Lieutenant Walter Jones Never makes any military bones. Boom of gun and Hash of saber! Here come the army and Jimmie Raber. Pat Fessler is Irish, his heacl's not thick 'Cause on the field he's certainly quick! As a right end Jimmie Walker's a wow! Can he play football? Oh, boy! And how Quintilla Morris is small in size But, nevertheless, she is certainly wise. If you're stuck in Math, go call H I That brilliant mathematician, Edna Pill. x Lois Henderson is quite a girlg A At mathematics she's a whirl. ' She has black hair which isn't even curly l But she's a sweet girl, that Josephine Turly. Never such a salesman did 'I see As that little girl, that Edith Overtree. Dorothea Maple is like a tree, For sturdy and strong and graceful is she. Hazel Fisher is the Kate Smith of Techg We hope Kate's size she'll be able to check Helen Stoshitch, quite demure, Good at art, you may be sure. A peppy lad is Robert Sturm, Some clay helll be head of a famous firm. Some day were sure that tall Ray Moyer Will be an ardently pleading lawyer. Dorothy Syerup's as sweet as her nameg Try her with waffles, you'll find her the same. 2 bar- ' A, ffl, . , ..5eas.1f , ....-'L . X if 2 i Q , --r.x X A L, . WA V? ' ,C gx , If sway 422, f S 4xr-mucous 2 Q N an .I ' f Z Q ?z?p , 0 XX ' 0 I J T y K - 2 gc Af 9. 24 zxxvg T6 X XX WM: 0 l li K V X I n1fll1Wld1L' 2?-Ties, ' J l ff Q 1. X af ' aa A .1 Q f ZW 2 i X QL W E ' fi t l All 1 f ,JY-

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CHILDHOCD MEMCRIES Ames CONJURE ow scENEs By LOIS STEVENS I LOVE rainy days. Something about a rainy day causes me to feel at peace with the world. Per- haps it is the fact that on a rainy day, I often live over bygone times up in the attic, close to the gentle pit-a-patting of the raindrops. In the darkest corner stands an old, neglected trunk, waiting to be explored. I drag it from the dark recesses under the eaves. As I throw back the lid, the first article which greets my gaze is the family album. What family does not have at least one album? If there is such a one, then the members of it have lacked one of the most delightful possessions obtainable, for an album guards memoriesg some good, same sad. The first picture in the book is of Grandmother-that dear old lady of yesteryear. As I stare at her round, serene face, a pic- ture rises to my mind. Green meadows roll off into the distance, a white road winds through the green fields, meanders along the bank of a flowing stream, and comes to a halt before a snug, white cottage with a red roof. A small flower garden in the background is the favorite haunt of Grandmother. I wend my way care- fully through the many bushes which dot the lawn. Spying Grandmother digging industri- ously at her prized rose bushes, I shout a greeting. A few minutes later, I am following her into the clean, airy kitchen. Grandmother bustles over to the corner-cupboard, procures a plate of cookies which she sets before my de- lighted eyes-then to the cellar for the foaming white milk which always accompanies this re- past. Tears dim my eyes as I think of those happy days spent with my dear grandmother. She is gone now, and those days are past for- ever. Opposite Grandmothefs photograph, I be- hold that of Grandfather. He has a shock of gray, unruly hair. Merry blue eyes twinkle up at me as if their owner and I share a secret. I always delighted in Grandfather's droll humor. Whenever I was in want of a companion, I visited the barn where Grandfather.-was usually to be found. I loved to go through the dim passageway back to the stall of Billie, the prized buggy-horse. Looking shyly up at Grandfather, I would beg, Put me on Billie's back, Grand- pa. Then up into the air I would sail to land safely on the sheeny black back of Billie. Look- ing down from my high perch a trifle nervously, I usually saw Grandfather beating a hasty re- treat to the door. I wanted to test your courage, he would explain with twinkling eyes. I also loved to accompany Grandfather at milking time. Some- times I was permitted to experiment in the milking process, but most of the time I was content to watch the streams of milk trickling into the bucket. The last bucket filled, the cows were turned back to the pastures, and we hastened up to the house where Grandmother was preparing one of her incomparable meals. My favorite vacation spot was at the home of this dear old couple. I turn through the album slowly, finally stopping at a picture of Max, the dog. He was always a small bundle of energy. His white body would be seen one minute dashing down the road, the next, trotting beside Grandfather as he performed his daily tasks. He was the last survivor of this happy household. One morn- ing his still body was discovered lying beside the roadway where he had been knocked by a passing automobile. With his death, went the last living member of my grandparents' family. Shutting the album with a sigh, I replace it in the old trunk. Delving through the latter's contents again, I draw forth a battered doll- Louise, by name. Sentiment forbids my de- stroying the childhood companion, entirely. Her silk dress is rotted and torn, so she must be handled carefully. Her china face is cracked, her once beautiful hair is matted. In truth, she is a woeful sight to behold. Regardless of this, I love her, she is the emblem of my youth. Her eyes are devoid of' expression. In the old days, my imaginative mind read love and loyalty in the depths of her blue orbs. As I lay her away, I wonder, if she could speak, what would she say about her long exile from human com- panions. The last article which I extract from the gloomy depths of the old trunk is a blue silk dress to which clings a musty odor of rotting fabrics. About twenty ruffles adorn this gar- ment. I laugh as I remember the time this dress was my favorite possession, when I re- fused to be seated lest I disarrange the care- fully ironed adornments. Will rutfles ever re- turn to fashion? I wonder, as I replace the discarded dress. With a tender sigh, I close the lid of the trunk and return it to its position under the eaves where it will wait for another rainy day.

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