Elwood Community High School - Crescent Yearbook (Elwood, IN)

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THE COMET A Locker’s Contemplations “When winter comes spring is not far behind,” and when spring comes commencement is not far away. So I am lonely. 1 am supposed to be nothing but a plain, lifeless, cold locker. I have no identity other than No. 361, almost like a prison convict. The only voice I possess is a harsh, jarring rattle which I make when I am opened or closed. I am just like many other lockers. On either side of me are many that look just alike. I attract no one’s attention. I am located in the darkest part of the upper hall where the light of day never shines upon me and seldom any other light. I have protected books, papers, notes, love letters, compacts, and other articles of confidential nature for Marcella for four years and have never divulged a secret. But she will soon leave me; yank my lock off of me and leave me alone and exposed to the glaring eyes of the wide world. Why shouldn’t I be sad ? Yet, I have many happy memories to brighten me in the dark hours to come. Few locks have been so fortunate as I in the past four years. Instead of coming to me only once or twice a day, Marcella has lovingly caressed my lock and handle at least a dozen times in the morning while she waited for Everett to appear. Kelton used to handle me when he chatted endearingly with “Sweet Marie!” Oh! those tender confidences bestowed on me by those four fill me with happiness yet bring sad thoughts to my mind. Oh! Where is Everett now? Why has Kelton deserted me ? In the dark hours of the night, I casually glance over the treasures entrusted to me. 1 view with interest in the September Pathfinder of ’29. the picture of “Silent Cal.” who has since returned to Southhampton. I see the picture of a happy, courageous young engineer from California who has lecentiy assumed the responsibility of the presidency in a note that he plans to abolish poverty from the land of America and that the election of ’28 endorsed the “noble experiment” as a settled policy of the United States. I read that thousands have made fortunes on Wall Street and that America is the land of wealth and plenty with none but happy employed people. The names Smoot, Watson, Wood, Purnell, and several others appear. Where are they now? Where are our happiness and plenty? 1 read of revolutions, five-year plans, of stock crashes, England off the gold standard, Kellogg Peace Pacts, and Japanese invasions of China, insurrections, Capone, Roosevelt, Democratic landslide, McNutt, moratoriums, farmers’ holidays, bank holidays, scrip, Zangara and Cer-mak, earthquakes in California, tornadoes in Tennessee, floods in Ohio, and beer by April 7. It is all so confusing to me that I turn away in despair and read the sweet little love notes from Paul Wilson, written ’way back in ’31. “Oh! Marcella, T.....’’ Next I find one of ’30 from Rex Lineberry inviting Marcella to a party. Then there’s one from Robert Richards that was used to hide her gum in when a monitor approached. Then, too, I turn back dust covered pages and find those loving little notes from Robeit Grit-ton ’way back in ’30. But the back corner of my space is filled with the notes from Everett. My! he was ever so attentive. They would be interesting but they are so much alike. These are just a few of my memories of the past. They are my secrets never to be exposed to a scandal-loving world. I knew the opinion of more girls, of more boys than any other person in the school, but that is another secret I must not tell because hundreds of lovesick girls have trusted me—have spoken right before me. So you see, I, locker number 361, have my sorrows and my heartaches as May approaches. Marcella has been the verv best kind of a sport, she has been a good, confidential friend but she will leave me and others will come. Maybe Charlotte Wright will come and take me. Perhaps she will share her thrills with me or perhaps Postoffice Rosie will be my pal. Whoever my future will he, my past is filled with rich memories. —H. L. Coming Up (Continued from page 16) Last, but not least, the juniors are well represented on the annual staff, and have contributed freely with their time and effort and have done their share to solve the many new financial problems peculiar to this year’s publication. This is a position of honor and each class should be proud of their members on the annual staff. As a result of these experiences, we feel justified in saving and prophecying that next year’s senior class will possess the leadership necessary to carry on the activities and traditions of E. H. S. in a manner that will bring pleasure and satisfaction to all. They seem to have everything for a successful senior year, and that is what they must look forward to. We feel that we have the privilege of the teachers in saying that this class has been one of the best classes in many a year. “BILL” AND “MILLY” “Bill” and “Milly”; “Mill” and “Billy”; Any way it’s said, it’s silly. In street or hall, in any weather— They are seen with hands together; Bill, so towering and athletic, Milly, short and sympathetic. What a pair! Are lovers silly? Take a look at Bill and Milly. Page twenty-four

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the comet Sophomores Column One — Josephine Sloan Leonard Hodson, Ethel Persin-p-er, Dorothy Cochran, Rebecca Noland, Robert Goodman, Mary E. Harbit, Dairy McCarel, vice-ores., Elsie McMinds, Adrian Bambrough. Column Two—-William Hoose, Margaret Miller, Cecil Fitzpatrick, Frances Mae DeHority, sec., Harold Dietzer, Arthur Stokes, Milo Kilgore, I ?on Smith, Billy Wann, Lucille Hackett. Column Three—Marie Woodsides. Carol Hiatt, Olive Cain, Evelyn Faust, William Tubbs, Annabelle Wallace, Francis Henderson, Esther Crider, Catherine Bell, James Heflin. Column Four-—Eugene Daugherty, Mary Ellen Yarling, pres., James Van Winkle, William Parsons, Muriel Sellers, Richard Mont-gomei-y, Jane Ann Hiatt, Thos. Davis, Alice Vinson, Betty Brown. Column Five—Cleo Fetz, Dilver Whetstone. Charles Lamm. Howard Idle, Earl Griffin, Elbert Murray. Ruby Hamm, Okal Benedict, Robert Stevens, Carlos Little. Column Six—Gertrude Hartley. Carl Antrim, Ruth Moorehead, Joe Floyd, Marjorie Boston, treas., Lottie Williams, Jack Frazier, Harriet Lind'.ey, Mary K. Harris, Robert Klumpp. Page twenty-three

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the comet The Green Horde or Why Is a Freshman? Seniors may pass away into the hinterlands of the business and professional world; juniors may lose their true identity mingling in the sophistication of the seniors; sophomores may wear a roolish grin of satisfaction having sipped at the Pyerean wells of knowledge and thus hide from the world their ignorance; but the freshman lives on forever—a brilliant argument that Darwin and Barnum were both right. They have been with us always a necessary evil and an indelible blot on the escutcheon of academic education, fclvery mother has just cause to protest that she did not rear her child to be a freshman. Like a green horde the freshmen have overrun the world. We see them stumbling into senior lectures on physics, enrolling in public speaking, losing their way in the halls, spilling ink on newly polished floors, mixing Latin declensions and murmuring algebraic expressions. (Ah, yes, one ever wonders if they have not been tampering with our banking system.) In the library we see them as thick as vermin in one of Edgar Allen Poe’s dungeons. Rattling newspapers, bumping against chairs, dropping books and in divers other ways they annoy the studious upper classmen grinding away at their books. In the halls, in the office, in the auditorium, and on the streets one sees them. Freshmen, freshmen everywhere but with not a thought to think. The faculty is at the end of its wits to avoid The Freshman’s Creed I am the freshie. I am the youngest institution in the school and I am the oldest. The school is my heritage when I come into it and when I go I leave it to the next generation of freshies. My mission is to leave the school a better place than I found it. With my many small classmates I can do this if the upperclassmen do not impose too many handicaps upon me. I want to be respected by the upper classmen. I want to have a voice in school affairs. I want my ability and intelligence to be recognized. If the upperclassmen will make my path easy now, I will help other freshies when I grow. I am the object of all jokes and wisecracks. I am in everybody’s way and jam the halls to capacity. I am known to be terrorized by the “office.” I want to make the honor roll. I always obey the teachers. When I am a senior I will act my age. I shall carve my name on every desk. I am the hope of the school. I am the freshie. the new green horde of freshmen. English teachers scream with terror as the “freshies” hurl split infinitives at them. Biology teachers go into tantrums looking at the freshman’s futuristic sketches of flora and fauna. Mathematics instructors have conniptions as these verdant neophytes misplace decimal points and confuse algebraic formulae. Foreign language instructors become delirious as they listen to the cold-blooded “rhinies” slaughter the President’s French and Caesar’s Latin. “Et tu, Freshman,” Caesar must murmur as he turns in his grave. From the princioal on down to the lowliest sophomore the green plague has struck everyone. None is spared. What must we do about it? Banish them to Devil’s Island ? Molakai or the Arctic Circle ? The S. P. C. A. would prevent such a remarkable solution to our problem. Science has come to our rescue. Doctors have concocted a gaseous substance called “Antifreshness” with which we can innoculate our fi-eshmen. This treatment when administered with care over a period of one year will make a freshman indistinguishable from the average sophomore. Not much improvement. But we have remaining for our labor the lesser evil which may in time evolve into that homo sapiens stage of a senior. All of which proves the old adage: “Great big seniors from little freshmen grow.” —Henry Schuck. THE CAME We will play the game and we’ll play it square; It’s better to lose than to win unfair. What matters if the cheater wins, We will do our best and if in the end, We still are loserg, we will carry on The greatest game that can be won. We know it’s hard to lose honor and fame But we’re proud to win in Life’s great game. —Mildred Goins. THE FLIGHT “Already,” cried the driver, “Contact,” rang clear and loud. And off down the field Soaring up to the clouds. Away down the skyline, Not another in sight. Still going, up and around: My! what a beautiful sight. But, wait, why we’re falling, My goodness ’tis true. See how the ground rushes Right up to the blue? We crash in a grassy field, And oh, my! Such a fall; But you need not worry, For I am just a golf ball. —Robert Foster Page twenty-five