Cleveland High School - Beacon Yearbook (St Louis, MO)

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-, gu t XX ' ' -- 1538 4 1223 We are the cream of Creation itself, We should be supreme in the lanclsg lnstead man does worship that misshapen elf- The automobile made by hands. O give us the peaceful pasture once more, Where highways do not turn and windy Where there is green grass and wildflowers galore, And we meet only those of our kind! O give us a sky of only pure blue Where planes their propellors ne'er fang And then-there is no more for us they need do- We can allbe friends to manl MARVIN E. MUELLER ACROSS THE FENCELESS SKIES QQ UTSIDE a silver mist of frost S fd 0 I seeg far off l hear The ring of skid chains on the ice. A?-ai The night is cold and clear. . Yet up among thin wisps of clouds I look with upturned eyes To see a plane go sailing on Across the fenceless skies. The moon glints on its silver wings, The lights in its cabin glow As beautiful as a ship of olcl, ln deep seas greenish How. ln storm and rain, in clouds and fog, Forever this mail plane flies, Making its way on thru the night Across the fenceless skies. ERIC j. BUCHANAN T 'flig-

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fri r-fi? , ,. 'it ' , kg T ti si - T 12 . 4 THE LAMENTATIONS OF A HORSE 2.2 BELONG to a race of ancient fame, Who have toiled as only they cang O, 'twas many a day since my ancestors came, :t,jiw To be good servants to man. waffle l myself have known all the pains of the world, l have worked in foul weather and fair: ln agony oft have my nostrils curledg lVlan did neither know nor care. And now in the day of my age and decline, They add of burdens e'en moreg The motor car makes me to fret and to pine, And the airplanes strike me full sore! 'Tis not that they cause us more work to do Nor for harm to us do l them blame, 'Tis the hurry and scurry and much ado, And dishonor to our glorious name. 'Tis true, even yet there are horses of fame, A few thousand dollars each bringsg But they, alas, are not the sameg They belong to the sport of kings! But 'tis we, the working ones, we that do mourn 'Tis we that in rage shake our manesg For we cannot bear the dull sound of the horn, Nor the buzz of the fleet aeroplanes. We cannot endure the blunt stare of mankind, Who regard us as monsters thrice rare, As though we were some sort of beast hard to find, l would trample them down if l dare. But at automobiles they do gaze without awe, And at airplanes do not blink an eyeg The most fearsome things that ever l saw Are those bugs of earth and of sky. Twenty-Hu

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. X , G W-S2257 ' i IES! . 1223 I'S A STEAMBOATIN' MAN! Kll.,LETFACE leaned lazily against the rail and gazed out at the broad, green cotton fields on either side of the boat. Things were bothering himg in fact, it had just dawned upon him that he would like to get a job farming. Life on the steamboat was tiresome, to be exact, it was boresome. The landings were far too frequent to suit Skilletface. Toting the cargo on and off was by far too much like work to please such a leisure- loving negro as Skilletface. VF W S jest as soon as this her ole boat lands l's leavin'. Gonna' get me a job farmin'. Farmin' hit ain't nothin' but walkin' behind a ole mule. Don't have got to tote nothin' on and off like a nigger does on this here ole barge. Skilletface went over every phase of farming in his mind until he became bored. Then he went to sleep. When he awoke the boat was nearing a small landing called Staples Point and was making ready to land. Glory bel Cap'm gonna' land here. Guess this am as good a place as they is fer to go farmin'. When the boat had docked and freight was being unloaded, Skilletface left and made straight for the first farm on the levee. As he crossed the field, he met a man on horse-back, to whom he immediately applied for a job. l-le followed his employer for about a half mile to the barns. Here a pick and a shovel was secured and the march back to the field then began. When they finally reached the field, the man showed Skilletface a ridge through which he wanted a ditch dug. lf you hurry, by sundown you'll have paid for your supper, he said. Then he rode away. So this am farmin'? Where's de plow and mule? What's a farmer widout a plow? Skilletface knew very well what a pick-and-shovel job was like. The farming he was getting was not at all what he had expected. He grabbed the pick and began to work. By the middle of the afternoon not a thought was in his mincl. l-le just worked away. When he tired of swinging the pick, he tried the shovel for a while. Sometimes Twenty-seven