Shortridge High School - Annual Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

Page 10 text:

Prologue Gard Master Reader: e- ': DOUBT not that 'g5?,CJLf'2? ' - you remember how 'gggga 'V that most worthy 5905? l knight and spears- vgw , 4 man, LordAchilles, Cir Q g M 'Z -7,15 4V e V I spake of the fair- 9 cheeked maiden Q ,ooo Briseis, his prize, as gggg 6M'yov -re 4al7kav re, 259' a thing small and dear? And you re- member CI say it with all reverence for your witl the excellent saying of that motley-minded gentleman, Clown Touchstone, concerning the buxom Audrey? A poor virgin, sir, quoth he, with one red and yellow arm about the waist of that apple-cheeked poppet, H an ill-favored thing, sir, but mine own. Here, then, Master Reader, is our book. 'Tis but a small thing, good sooth, yet it is our own, a book of no great value, but our hands and our brains have wrought it. Read it or fling it from youg take it or leave it-what you will. As for us, 'tis our own and we love it. Be it as Dan Chaucer would say, Blameth not me, if that ye chese amiss. He in whose nostrils the scent of youth's purple violets is no longer sweet, who is so fulfilled of crimson roses and lush wall-fruit ripening in the sun that he careth not for the delicate wild-wood fragrance of pale prim-

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Prologue roses--lo! the youth of that man is a thing cold, dead, shrouded, laid out for burial. Somewhat so runs the quaint old French of Master Hughes de Lissingeaux. And truth it is. If you care not to go with us where the willows are a mist of green along the river bank and kneeling to gather with us the Hrstling violets-well, God rest you merry sir! and so farewell! Where we go are waters blue and gray, silvery ripples where the gusts of April shiver across, trees all a-tiptoe with the wonder of tender lisping leaves, birds singing, birds crooning in nests, birds flying everywhere, and there are our violets, young, new-born in the tangled grasses, youth's purple violets to which we would lead you. If you like not such things turn aside to your dusty streets, your gloomy chambers, your mildewed tomes. Your youth lies drowned at the bottom of the years. But for us is the hey-day of life, for us laughter and song and dance and the sound of piping. You will come with us? Good sir, stick this violet as it were a riband in your cap, here, for a breast-knot, be fair yellow primroses plucked from the jade-green clusters along the banks of that sunny path of dalliance. Gentle reader give us your hand. Youth is a precious thing, a thing of pearl-sheen and cloud and moonlight, impalpable as blue mist of dreams, wrought of magic and wizardry, to be seen only of those who know. And if it please you, we would show you that branch-charmed Druid wood. Come with us and be a child again. Here is the way. -9