Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

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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

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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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might and main, there being in sight no living thing with which he could pick a fight. Hello, Ted, Son said in his genial manner. Ted gave the tree an even more vicious kick. Ted looked at Son ' s satiny legs as if he were wishing that they stood where the tree did. You waitin ' to see Auntie Marg come? beamed Son. Shut up, came from the other. ' ' My Auntie is coming. ' ' He smiled unconcernedly and was turning away when fate took a hand. Inside Son ' s pocket his hand was closed over those kisses. He brought them forth and displayed them proudly. See my Auntie Marg ' s tisses, Ted? See, one, two, three, four, five. Ted spat contemptuously on the ground. Who cares for your Aunt Marg? he growled. Then with a quick ugliness he snatched the paper from Son ' s hand and tore it into bits and scattered it to the winds. After which he looked at Son with the expression Well, what are you going to do about it? At first Son ' s lip quivered, then something inside him began to boil. Next his hands were clenched and he shot forward like a shot. It was a whirlwind fight while it lasted. The two figures seemed as one. Now they were down, rolling, striking. From a window two people were watching. They had seen the start. As they watched Betsy rung her hands and wept, while her husband held her with a merciless grip from interference. Let him finish, let him finish. He ' ll be killed, sobbed Betsy. Oh, let me go. Ted ' s going home, said father. Son brushed a hand across his eyes. There was a scratch across his cheek and a growing bump on his forehead, and his white linen suit was dirty. But Son wasn ' t thinking of himself. With careful diligence he was gathering up the scraps of the precious paper. Then he made for the house and came in. He tore up my Auntie Marg ' s tisses. That ' s why I fought him. Son ' s father coughed as he realized that Son knew that he had done some- thing wrong. It was up to him to give the child a lecture. But how could he when he was filled with the keenest satisfaction? Then noticing that Son and mother were rushing into each other ' s arms, he quietly left the room. Outside the door he said to himself, He ' s my son, all right, but who would have thought that of him. Then he laughed and taking his hat slipped outdoors.