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

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b ■ r I Wild Ducks, Winging Low

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A MOTORBOAT RACE With Motors Roaring and the White Spray Flying HE levee, at St. Louis, was lined with people. Everyone was alert, watching motorboats that were in the Mississippi River tuning up. The people were climbing light-posts, while some were on the roofs of near-by buildings. All eyes were turned on five boats coming down the river, practically abreast. As the boats passed the official ' s barge. the report of a shot was heard, only to be drowned out by a tremendous roar as the boats sprang to life. A driver at the wheel of each little craft glanced from side to side, trying to avoid the rough spots in the water which might upset him. Down the river the boats went, increasing their speed at every turn of their propellers. The water immediately behind them was thrown up in a spray about four feet high. This for a while obscured the boats. As the drivers made the far turn, the leader hit an unusually high wave and turned over. The other boats avoided the craft in the water and continued on their way. The turnover is one of the ever-present menaces in this type of sport. When everyone saw that the driver of the ill-fated craft was safe, the crowd again followed the four remaining racers, who. by this time, had made the near-turn and were coming down the river for the final two hundred yards. As the winner shot over the finish line, his motor was cut immediately to a slow speed. The rest of the drivers did the same thing as they finished. When the boats had been returned to the dock, the tense features of the drivers were turned into smiles, as though they were glad to be out of their tricky little crafts and have at least one foot on the ground. Fr.ank Rumping. Page Twenty-five

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DUCK HUNTING UCK-HUNTING! The very mention of this magic phrase sends tingling thrills through the true sportsman ' s being. He pic- tures the exhilarating tramp through the crackling frost- encrusted stubble and weeds down to the steaming expanse of the broad marshy lake, barely discernible in the steely gray of the early morning. In his mind ' s eye. he sees his companion and himself getting into the slim gray skiff tied in the shallows and gliding out into the damp of the marsh. The short paddle in and out among the hoary rushes and cat-tails, com- pletely surrounded by the lakes low-hanging steamy breath, is made just as streaks of silver begin to scar the heavens. Gliding into a quiet glade formed by the frost-coated cat-tails and hidden from the eyes of the game by the foggy vapors, the hunters anchor their craft, A vague throbbing silence falls over the lonely scene. Ears are straining for any betraying rustle in the growth around the borders of the marsh. Tense fingers grip the chill yet reassuring blue steel of the long gun-barrels. Silence — cold frosty silence — a silence even heightened by the monotonous slap-slap of the water lapping at the sides of the boat, A slight rearrangement of numb stiffened limbs and the chilly vigil continues. Suddenly there is a nervous rustling in the cat-tails — profound quiet — then a rapid flapping of wings and a number of wild ducks, winging low, flash past the concealed hunters, bringing a thrill indescribable in mere words. Three staccato shots crack upon the peaceful air, followed by a frantic whirr of hysterical wings. The flock is gone: but two of its members remain behind for the bag of the sportsmen, and before the reverberating echoes have melted into the distance the feathery victims are being secured. Once more the hunters retreat to their blind among the rushes to wait in chill solitude for a chance at other of the wild denizens to fatten their game bag. What is regarded as discomfort by most people is a real pleasure to the honest nature-loving sportsman. So at the mention of the phrase duck-hunting. he invariably dreams of past experiences and plans for new, Robert R.wvizz. , 5eL Page Twen ty-sei ' cn