Peru State College - Peruvian Yearbook (Peru, NE)

 - Class of 1917

Page 187 of 302


Peru State College - Peruvian Yearbook (Peru, NE) online yearbook collection, 1917 Edition, Page 187 of 302
Page 187 of 302

Peru State College - Peruvian Yearbook (Peru, NE) online yearbook collection, 1917 Edition, Page 186
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Peru State College - Peruvian Yearbook (Peru, NE) online yearbook collection, 1917 Edition, Page 188
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Page 187 text:

by the wild caprices of the horses which her companion was managing with a sort of grim pleasure. Up to this time she had not tried to think, or even talk—both she and the cowpunchcr were too much occupied in other ways. But it now occurred to her that she had not seen a soul out here in this almost trackless waste, except this f|iecimen by her side. Someway, even missionary work in the wild west didn’t seem very attractive unless there were people to missionaryi .e. This question about the population of her future field of labor worried her. She even ventured to ask, “Mow many were in attendance at the Crimson (rulch School?” “Wal now, you know we have ter keep a school agoin’ whether thar’s any—(gol-dang yer hide, jes’ you try shyin’ at nurher one un them thar sticks!)—or not. But a purty lass such as ye ought ter have a whole room full.” She laughed—rather hysterically. No one in that country can tell why, but everyone knows that at that moment those wooly bronchos began to run and gallop wildly on over that roughened road, dragging behind them the swaying stage with its two helpless occupants. Betty was wild with terror. She knew it was but a matter of a few moments when she could be forced to lose her hold and be flung off the pitching vehicle. In her delirium it seemed as if her mind’s eye were fixed on a bright, flaming red spot in the distance surrounded by a dusty halo, swaying to and fro,—and coming nearer, near . . . A sudden, side lurch and she was hurled off that mad stage. And in that one moment to keen perception that always precedes a blow of the horrible, she saw that galloping by the side of the coach was a man—in a red shirt! . . . Then all went black. She opened her eyes; a quiver of pain ran thru her body; she was aware of some one pouring a lot of sharp, stingy stuff down her throat. Her head was pillowed on crimson flannel, supported by a strong arm. Bending close over her was the face of a man such as she had never seen, but read about all her life—strong, kind, handsome. How she worshipped the West! She murmured something about Crimson (Julch School. “Yes,” he said, ‘Tvc been thinkin’ fer a long time a goin' to school.” She smiled just a wee, faint, satisfied smile. And never was there a woman more glad that she was mistress of the noble art of feigned unconsciousness. Episode No. Written by Maie Osborne “What would have become of me if you had not happened along,” sighed Betty as she slowly opened her eyes. “It was rather dangerous, wasn’t it?” he said pleasantly as he helped her into the coach. “Waal, that was a mighty narrow escape. Bob!” said the driver as he whipped up his horses and started off. Now it’s always just as affairs are growing interesting, that things like this happen. Here, she had seen a very handsome young man and was just about to introduce

Page 186 text:

Zwp y°6 rt i c f7 Hetty experienced the same revolution of feeling of awakening from an unpleasant dream. Her hands Hew to her straying hair, thence to her pocket, thence to her face, and with a few deft circular motions her toilet was completed. The imprisoning sage leaped back into oblivion. Here was the west, the land of romance, here was a man, here were new worlds to conquer. However, the individual appearing before her at this juncture was hardly a susceptible victim of her feminine charms. Tall, emaciated, with the eyes of a strayed lamb, the whiskers of a Tripolitan pirate, over his attire let us draw a veil. “Be you th’ schoolmarm thet’s goin’ to teach over at Crimson Gulch?” “Oh yes, and have you come to take me?” “Yup.”—Silence. “Is it very far?” "Tolablc, sixty-five mile.” “Oh, then we must hurry—my trunks are over here.” She watched him mutely while he put the trunks into the antiquated vehicle, vainly trying to think of a fit topic for conversation. “This is an awfully lovely country, isn’t it. do many people leave here?” “Yup, feller left last week.” "Oh, poor fellow, and was he homesick?” “Nope, went busted, too much expense fer string.” “For string?” “Yup, to keep his hat on, turrublc windy country.” How absurd that a man should go bankrupt for such a reason. Still—but it was too ridiculous. He must have misunderstood her. She would try again. “These horses are rather temperamental aren’t they?” “Why—Why—Yes, yes, that much anyhow.” “Arc they very dangerous, do they run away very often ?’’ “Why, no mum, they haint very dangerous, leastways thev’s jest as many times they don’t run off as they is times they do.” Was this his criterion of a gentle horse? How she wished at that moment that she had not left a debutante season behind her for this silly missionary adventure. She was granted little time for her blue tinted introspection, for the cowpunchcr had fastened her trunks securely, and she was obliged to mount to the swaying seat of the stage. Taking advantage of a moment when the off horse wasn’t looking he climbed quickly to the seat beside her. loosened the reins of the plunging broncos and they were off. Episode No. 2 Written by A. Lewis '1 vlcr. Ye gods! Would this awful sea of sage and sand never have an end? For hours (surely there was something wrong with her watch, for it said it was only ten o’clock)—for an interminable, vacant, aching age. she had sat cramped up there on that hard, jolting seat. Every minute she had to catch desperately at the scat, the driver’s arm or even the reins in order to keep from being thrown off the stage boddy. £ 7

Page 188 text:

herself since the driver had made no move to, when this most discourteous driver started off. Betty caught herself looking hack in the direction from which they had come and several moments passed before she was conscious of her companion talking to her. “He’s only been in the West fer four years now. His name is Robert Stillman an’ he’s the dam engineer. Seem’s like a good nuf fellow, even tho he is one of them college high breds.” All this made Betty the more curious. Where in the East had he lived and what college had he attended ? As this cowpunchcr was trying to answer her incessant flow of questions, they neared the town of Crimson Gulch. Was this the place in which she was to live for nine months? How could she ever endure it? If she had only met Mr. Stillman she was sure that things would have proved more interesting, hut there was nothing to do now but make the best of it. . . . It was Friday afternoon and a quarter holiday at the school so Betty started home early. She was not her usual cheerful self—she had a headache and she thought she was a little homesick. She followed a path to the very top of a hill. T he sun was shining down fiercely but the breeze was cool. She walked along not interested in what she saw and thinking it was rather a waste of time, when suddenly she recognized that pleasant voice which she had heard before saying—“Are you lost. Miss West?” “No, Mr. Stillman," she replied. Then they looked at each other and laughed, shook hands and Bob said, “Now that we are formally introduced, may I walk with you ?” “If you can help me run away from my homesickness, I shall be more than pleased.” “Are you afflicted with that awful malady, too? Well, what do you know about that! We’ll have to form a society for homesick New Yorkers, won’t we?" asked Bob. “And say, let’s have the membership limited to two." “Hey git some action in there," yelled the director and the camera man was scowling as he ground out the film. “Don’t you know this is the finis?” Chemistry atth the Citrrtritlnm There is a wide-spread conviction that all is not well with the courses in our public schools and colleges. It is something more than a jest, that our graduates are unfitted rather than fitted for the workaday world, the world in which ninety-nine and nine tenths per cent of us live. By this is meant the world of thot, of society, and civic life, as well as the world of industry. When there is a radical difference between transactions of life, and of the curricula of our schools, there is something wrong with life or educational systems, and one may be pardoned for suspecting that it is not life that is awry. The trouble with the curricula makers, is the failure to distinguish essentials and desirables from non-essentials in education, and to put first things first—first in time, first in importance, and first in their insistence upon our attention. S 7

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