Shortridge High School - Annual Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

Page 19 text:

CI5R1VfSP'EFif5.OllK. B 1 QUE? KIVYK HE LAST hour of daylight is slipping away-forever. The river ,A is resplendent in the glory of the June sunset. The wooded land Q71 C35 stretches out, on either shore for a mile or more to join the rug- fjl F it ged mountains that rear, like the shapeless monsters of old .ij Q legends, against the sky. The deep green forests afford a back- gro 'Fnd for the turquoise tinted river as it slips in and out along , pg X Y theirregular shore, snakelike, to join the ocean. 554 gg Gradually the sun lays aside the brilliant golden tints and .begins to paint the sky in pastel hues. The colorful river begins :to change, too. Even the trees are transformed, losing their 'sombre -tones in the afternoon light of the heavens. In the dis- tance the mountains 'Gare wrapped in a fllmy, misty veil of pink. The minutes pass quickly, as the sun drops, the pink in the sky changes to purple. Darkness comes on. The river turns black, the trees lose their individual shapes and become a blurry mass. Somewhere in the forgest a bird is singing the last notes of his vesper song. But he, too, soon ceases. Gradually the mountains in the distance lose their sharper outlines. Dark- ness hides all. The moon climbs over the tops of the trees, cold in her silver- pale beauty, and the river moves solemnly on toward the ocean. The vesper hour by the river, with all its witchery and appeal, is past. -KATHLEEN M'KEE. '-. .- ls l,-au, -. ,xexx -ex N-Y. ,f ' .- gif , GLY DUCKLING, on you pond, Floating near some water flower, What an awkward fowl thou art To live in such a fairy bower! 'Mid lillies of the purest white, In limpid pools of clearest blue, You swim and flutter day and night- Ungainly bird of saffron hue! Surely such a beauty spot Is meant for royalty of the air. Perchance 'tis for a pluined egret, Or other kind of heron rare. B-ut no, ungainly yellow duck, V This paradise is surely thine. 'Tis not for man to comprehend The Wisdom of the Most Divine. --REGINALD GARSTANG.

Page 18 text:

oo 2-5- Eb COTLAND was the native haunt Of Donald Jean McNabb, And true to race Don Jean was gaunt And short the gift o' gab. to say That never did he speak 0 Unless someone asked him to pray, Or slapped him on the cheek. No one said that he was dull, Nor on the other hand, Did any say that in his skull The earth and sea were spanned. At any rate he had the nerve To be a Fusileer, - Andtfrom his duty ne'er to swerve Throughout his whole career. So now in France we find him sent, With courage in his heartg ' On killing all the Germans bent, At least to do his part. One night McNabb 'went o'er -the top With just one S'-ottish friend, 1 A path through Hun barb-wire to chop, Or else to meet this end. 5 He cut the Gert an wires alliright, But when he started back He missed the Scotchman from his sight And looked for him. Alack! Then hearing low groans to his left He followed up the tip, -- And found his pal, the use bereft Of shattered arm and hip.- The next morn, asrthn, story goes, Found both within their trench, And where the Huns last night arose There stood the sturdy French. Now comes a scene behind the lines, With generals and such, And if we can read the signs Don now is frightened much. A general then pins on to him A medal of dull cast: And when at last he steps away, The cheers come thick and fast. And as the General praises Jean, In his peculiar way McNabb looks forth with royal mein And really speaks two words- What say? -REGINALD GARSTANG. Duty calls not many timesg It knocks but once upon our door, And when it comes all must respond. We'll go to war, or buy a bond. When then the foe defeated lies, Our Hag on high victoriously flying, We'll lift our heads and proudly say We helped to win and save the day. -JOHN CON NER.

Page 20 text:

W Chit GLISCERIDC1 GUHRIDIFIRE5' T WAS very still. Midnight had hushed the city, and the silent houses lay black splotches in the soft moonlight. The throbbing life of day had faded into the somnolent pulsation of a resting world. If sinister figures lurked amid the shadows, they created vo, Constance, asleep in her white bed, dreamed on oblivious of .. the. rays of moonlight filtering through the closed window-shut- I T ters, making grotesque shapes of the furnishings of the room. A N book lay beside her pillow-a volume of poemswhich she had been reading before she turned out her light. She had been trying to memorize some lines for future reference, but she went to sleep in the midst of it. Dreams are fantasies of the sleeping mind, and Constance's, unaccount- ably, seemed to be merely a retrospection of happy times spent on her grand- mother's farm. In her sleep she was a little girl again-her brown hair swing- ing in two lank 'pigtails,' her gingham dress fluttering above bare legs. Bird, docile in his senility, was waiting to take her for a ride on his broad back. Up she climbed, aided by a boost from her'uncleg up until she sat astride Bird's slippery back. She clung to his mane with both hands, half-delighted with the elevation, partly frightened at her own audacity. Away they went, step by step, up the graveled road that led past the house to the highway. She could see the mailman come driving his odd little wagon briskly along. He stopped at her grandmother's box, that sat high on the post, lowered the tiny tin flag, which signified that there was mail for him to carry back to town, and dropped in some letters. ' Bird simply wouldn't hurry. Constance urged him vociferously but it was in his own good time that he arrived at the mailbox, where she could lean down to take out the letters and papers. On the way back past the house,she threw the mail to her brother, who was waiting. Then they amblcd towards the barnyard. Constance drank in the fresh, dewy air, and viewed with delight the landscape which spread out panoramically before her, Unfortunately, she did not heed Bird's direction until too late. She gasptd in dismay. The horse was headed for the wind- pump and a cool drink from the partially filled tank. Constance felt herself slipping, and clutched wildly at Bird's mane. But down, down, down she went into the tank! The pellucid water was not deep, but very cold as she fell in with a splash! As she shivered, Constance awoke from her dream, which had such an icy ending. She was trembling at the suddenness of her arousing, and stared Si f X ftsx only deeper gloom, analogous to their own tumultous thoughts. fill'