Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

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T eueomG Francis Eu Daly, ' 23. HE sun is sinking in the west, The day is done. The birds fly homeward to their nests, The whole wide world is seeking rest, Low sinks the sun. The last light zephyr has gasped out, Night ' s mantle falls, The blundering beetle drones about, The cock gives out a final shout, The night wind calls. The bull-frog in the marsh below Begins his song, The robin in the dark hedge-row Sings sleepily. The fireflies glow, Shadows are long. The first faint star turns up it ' s light And twinkles clear, The faithful watchman of the night. Above all, God, who guides aright Till day appear. CHeBLUe-BIRD I Edna Peters know of one who has no care His joy is free for all, He travels miles without a fare Singing his song for all. With freedom from the world he sings His little song so true, Indeed, ' tis happiness that brings The little bird of blue.

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On a September morning two months later, Cyras sat in the postoffice and re- read the amazing article on Uncle Cy — The Man Who Builds Doll Houses. True, it was only a little People Who Are Doing Curious Things article squeezed into a half a page; but the magazine was very prominent. Even Tom Dillon was urging Cy to start his bank account with the Union Bank, for, he pointed out to Cy, that so much money left around the house might be stolen. Well, I might consider giving Bee the position she wanted, laughed Dillon. No, she and Dan are going to be married, I think, replied Cy. I see, twinkled Dillon, and I can ' t say I ' m surprised. Tom left Cy in a splendid stupor which he came out of to find Dodo ' s small face tilted toward him. His heart fell — she covered her face with a tiny hand as if in fear. But wait — she was peeping at him through spreading fingers, laughing. Cyrus was only conscious of the smiling neighbors as he swung her up to the window ledge. Could Uncle Cy use pretty stones that Dodo finds, could he? she asked, patting his cheek. Pretty stones? His hand clasped over her sticky fists. Why Uncle Cy could use pretty stones any number of ways. Alice Cobb small round hole, a little mouse, The mouse creeps from his tiny house. A square steel trap with grim aspect, Has many a mouse ' s family wrecked. Within the trap the mousie sees A golden, luscious piece of cheese. The mousie doubts, yet tempted feels, And toward that piece of cheese he steals. A frightened squeak, a sinister snap, And mousie ' s caught in the cruel trap. So let me then the moral map, Where there is cheese, beware the trap ! A

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! -.■:.-■■■■■ ' ; ' ■■■•■■■■• :■■■. ' mm - v !;sSi;3 K ' ' y . ' ' ' . ' . ' • ; § j:i 1 1 ( CH€ COflD WHO CURPeD. !) I - ir 18. Franklin Swain, ' 23. DUSK was settling over the city when two gentlmen seated themselves near the open grate fire in a private room of the most exclusive men ' s club in New York. One, whom we shall call The Man, was rather tall and well built with dark hair, faintly tinged with gray. The man ' s features were not of unusual type except that there was a long white scar under his chin running all the way across, but scarcely noticeable unless his head was thrown backward. The other was The Cynic, who was slightly shorter and who looked to be forty years old, about the same age of his companion. Both wore evening clothes and both looked to be successful. The Cynic leaned forward and stirred the dying embers of the fire, which immediately blazed forth, sending a shower of sparks which shot upward for a fraction of a moment, then died again. How like a dormant being who receives an inspirational stirring up and blazes forth with all the fire and energy of youth, only to die out from lack of repeated encouragement, observed the Man. True indeed, my friend, was the Cynic ' s rejoining answer. The fire was the only means of illumination in the room and it east strange grotesque yet beautiful flickering shadows on the walls and ceiling. Neither spoke for several minutes, but were engrossed in the fantastic figures made by the tongues of flame as now and then they leaped up, only to vanish again. I must thank you kindly for the gracious hospitality tendered me by your club, while I am in your city, said the Man. ' ' Please do not mention it. ' Birds of a feather, ' — you know. We are both interested in steel. But let us make the best of the passing time. Pardon my forgetfulness, but you are leaving — V At eight o ' clock. We haven ' t long, said the Man. They both lapsed into a reverie, gazing into the fire. Finally, the Cynic broke the silence. This is a world of misdemeanor, penitence and forgiveness, is it not? he asked.