Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

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eyemnc nc CHefvon abbcy T Osborne Fischbach, ' 23. HE setting sun with wistful glow Shines o ' er the the ivy-covered wall — It ' s last faint gleams in glory fall Through a small chink into a cell Of Brother Ambrose deep immersed In prayers, The which he oft rehearsed. And as the holy man turned o ' er The beads with many an ave And trembling pater noster grave, The last dim tokens of the day Shone on his old and seamed face And piercing eyes — He seemed as in a hallowed place. And now the cloister bell peals forth, Ah! Tintinabulum so clear, So free, so bright, and yet so drear. Whence thy power o ' er mind and heart To sorely try — exhilirate By strains Thy limpid tones reverberate. Paster and faster falls nocturnal gloom; The strident frog begins to sing, The cricket green virbates its wing, And other sounds of like import Re-echo through the sultry night, And such a night! By angels, spirits, genii bedight. Clink, clank the weighty gates are heaving to — The porter ' s light weaves in and out As to his cot he takes his route. Hush! All is still! All ' a 1 quiet! Within the hall the brothers all Are sleeping.

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' This is an embarrassing position, ' he continued, ' but you are young; you have the world before you, and forty years possibly in which to atone and counteract. My boy, it does not pay. ' ' ' There followed a silence, as still as death, in which the office clock could be heard as though it were measuring off the centuries of eternity. Then the watchman fumbled in his pocket, brought forth a crumpled bill and extended it to the boy. He looked up in surprise. ' Take it, son, ' said the watchman, ' and go East or West for a fresh start. ' ' Why— I— y-you— I couldn ' t take it. ' ' Consider it as a trade, then. I ' ll give you ten dollars for your lantern. ' The boy arose unsteadily and extended his hand. The watchman grasped it and removed his hat. Here the Man glanced at his watch, then continued, Together they passed out the door into the dark street. The Man arose and crossed to his hat and coat, It is getting late. My train leaves shortly but I will finish hurriedly. The last thing the watchman said was, ' Try it all over again, my boy. Life is beautiful if it is seen from the right side, and remember, a good name is the most valuable asset a man may have. ' The boy promised the watchman he would try to succeed and he has. There, my friend, are you convinced? I am. And I see you have become a success. The Cynic rose while the Man whirled around, facing him, and continued, I was the night watchman that night. opp accipencs I Keith Brackemyre, ' 23. SAW a cow slip through the fence A horse fly in the store; I saw a board walk up the street, A stone step by the door. I saw a mill race up the road, Morning break the gloom; I saw a night fall on the lawn, A clock run in the room. I saw a peanut stand up high, A sardine box in town; I saw a bed spring at the gate, An ink stand on the ground.

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COflKMG GOOP COICH PflP Edith Zimmerman, ' 23. HIS name was Son. There wouldn ' t be any better and bigger name for a four-year-old. His mother was a little woman with a disposition of captivating exactness. Yes, her son w r as just like her. Son was well liked by his grandparents, and uncle and aunts, and could have had as many homes as he desired. First of all there was the home of his mother and father. Then that of his grandmother Perkins ' home and his grand- mother Hollister ' s home. But the first and second were the ones he liked best. Mother, auntie and all the grandparents thought Son as nearly perfect as a child could be. Only his father was not satisfied with the perfection, and at times would grumble thus : I tell you Betsy, he ' s too good to be true. You take a thing from him — does he howl ? No. ' It isn ' t natural. Now I ask you, what kind of a man is he going to make, if he fails to develop some spunk? Wait, was always Betsy ' s answer. You forget because he is so big that he is only a four-year-old. ' ' Yes, but a four-year-old who wears a six-year-old suit isn ' t a baby, retorted father. Son wasn ' t like the other boys of the neighborhood. For whenever other boys plucked a flower Son would do his best at repairing their damage by replanting it. Son ' s father was a college man even if at times he alluded to his son as a mush head. When Son ' s Aunt Margaret wrote letters sending him kisses of crosses, he would count them carefully and slip them into his pocket and keep them until a time came to redeem them. You can ' t beat him at a love game, his father exploded contemptuously one Sunday morning after he had come upon Son searching the hamper of soiled clothes for the discarded suit of the day before. My Aunt Marg ' s tisses, Son explained as he fished the kisses out and put them in the pocket of the white linen suit he had on. Mush-head, commented his father. His Auntie Marg was coming that day and Son was going out to watch for her. So he went forth — wide blue contented eyes beneath a crop of curly yellow hair. When he reached the street he came upon six-year-old Ted Jones, the bully of the block. Ted ' s mother had just been disciplining him by making him button his little sister ' s shoes, and help his little brother into his clothes. By way of revenge, Ted was kicking the tree in front of Son ' s house with all his