Shortridge High School - Annual Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

Page 33 text:

APARABLE If Iliff' -TN 'Ng HERE was once a boy, who used to ramble about all day 9 J Pa um Q--fe 4 long. And he had a pencil, too, that was his constant companion. These two used to wander all day long, in Ekgjg? company with a smile of the kind that never comes off-nay, uwwtfx 4 Edt not even in his sleep was that smile absent long. And the pencil .used to write down. the things -which they saw, and l J J 6 X. 49, YZ the smile beamed on the things which it wrote. Now there i V QW was in those days, in the land in which those three lived--the S X' 4 WA 'Q t9n wii L' boy, and the pencil, and the smile-a weekly paper, known far and wide as the Church Weekly, because of the smile that helped produce it. Now the pencil was wont to write up all of the things which they saw in their rambles-and the smile beamed upon them. And then those sage remarks of the pencil would be printed in the great paper, and the smile beamed upon them. And the students who read the paper came to be familiar with the boy, and with pencil, and with the smile-and the smile beamed upon them. Now it came to pass in that year that they were holding a great senior election to elect a president. Now the boy, and the pencil and the smile went to this great election. And it came to pass that someone said of the boy, Let us make him our president'-and the smile eamed upon him. Then they voted, and it so happened that the most of them voted for the boy, and that they made him their president. And the smile beamed upon them, and is beaming on them now. Q i Q Q .SUCH TRICKS HATH .STRONG INAOINATIGN HINK of existence without imagination: think of life without its livin dreamsg hurl into oblivion your silver-lined clouds of promise, and see what a thorny, strag ly path lies before you. Imagine the ambitious youth without his air castlesg rob Sie err' man of his hopes of betterment. What an empty fallacy Life would be! How blinndiy we would grope our way in the future. Would Life be worth living?

Page 32 text:

AN INTERLUDE For easie things, that may be got at will, lkmmg Q X 1 nw S Wa QW ' Q9 lg 'A F 304- -- iii' 'if wi-le.-,-evwf ,. om, -X 0 .me 'mim i' av .Ifxi 1 ff fx tw Q F' ' . f - i ...Qi ht, ' -xi ,..' -' 'V 5 I V. 1 . : if PQEQ Q, Most sorts of men doe set but little store. HE touched the old walls reverently and her eyes eagerly scanned each object in the room: the old fashioned pictures, worn furniture and faded carpets. ln one corner, stood a piano, scarred with long years of service. She seated herself upon the rickety stool and with caressing fingers, played the old twilight melodies. The keys responded to her touch as the heartstrings of a friend. The happy voices without were as a faint echo of bygone days. Memories crowded thick about her, memories of the time when she, as a child, wove fairy tales from the patterns on the walls and carpet, clasped in hers the hands of bright faced children as they stepped to the tune of a nursery song, and when the soft voice of a mother lulled, into forgetfulness, her childish sorrows. The sound of her name broke the revery and with aching heart, she started to obey the summons. lt was home and she was leaving it. The sunbeams, glinting through the window, had summoned her to brighter lands, the stars had lightened paths of glory, breezes whispered to her words of fame. The narrow walls oppressed her. Beyond lay fields of action where she might gain renown. She had felt ashamed of the old fashioned furniture and quaint portraits on the walls. Her music-loving soul had longed for the fuller vibrations of a new piano. Now they were as loved ones whom she might never see again: and the thought that she had wronged them dimmed the bright promise of the future. Q Q Q HE body is a trust from God, to be rendered back to him when it has fulfilled its function of advancing the soul to a higher plane. He who neglects and abuses his body in the pursuit of knowledge is violating that trustg thus impeding the progress of the soul.

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AN EVENING GN THE RANCH HARRIET MARSHALL ,xynvvrrm 5 0 QUODQ 0 0 ooee at ' :4 10415 0340 ,W Q L Q I D s 0 o PUSHED my chair back from the supper table, picked up my cat, and repaired to the hammock. This was my usual program for summer evenings and was the Iuxury that came with that season of the year. I do not think that I err in caIIing it a Iuxury. What eIse can it be to lie on one's back and swing under arching trees, to watch the moon cIimb from star to star and Iet one's thoughts run riot, while some of the glory of the flrmament enters into one's souI? The scent ofthe honeysuckie IiIIed the night air, and the odor ofthe IVIarechaI NeiIs was intoxicating. Not far away the camp-fire of the Mexicans cast Iurid shadows on fences and ranch-houses, whiIe crouched around it were the 'mujeras and T niF1os. From that Iocality came the tinkling notes of a guitar, and the Iigures around the Iire swayed with the motion of the music as the tones of La GoIondrina were wafted over the prairie. One by one the voices took up the song until the air seemed heavy with sadness, as, in the minor tone which is characteristic of their race, they brooded over the words: I Deje' tambien mi patria idolatrada, Esa mansion que me miro' nacer, Mi vida es hoy errante y angustiada, I yo no puedo a' mi mansion voIver. They were dreaming then of their 'patria idoIatradag their thou hts were with the past. And mine--P I started. I too had been dreaming, and the sew had begun to faII. I lifted the sieeping kitten, roIIed from the hammock, and stood rubbing my eyes. The camp-fire was getting low and the figures which were around it had vanished. The guitar had ceased to echo its sad refraing but overhead a mocking-bird was singing softly, and the music of the song must have Iingered with me, for he seemed to sing, I yo no puedo a' mi mansion voIver. vi omven. eave ea tatistome eo , 'W I ' I I th I nd h b I ved TChiIcIren. That gave me birth, for some bleak distant shone, A poor, Ione wand'rer mid sharp pain and anguish, I Ieave my home and can retum no nore.'