Shortridge High School - Annual Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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SPRING I love to think of spring as something new, A time of gentle rains and tender tunes, Of tall trees, lifting green arms wet with dew, Or swishing skirts of snowy apple blooms In answer to a breeze that softly croons Of moonlight on a bed of daffodils, Of mating birds, and promises of June. And, though I shut my eyes, my whole soul thrills To think of summer waiting, unseen, in the hills. -Esther Hoover Q Wooos IN APRIL I visited the April woods one day, And there I saw such lovely signs of spring, I felt 'twas Nature's sweet assuring way Of showing men that death has lost its sting. From every branch birds' voices sing The glad rejuvenation of the treesg Wild plums, o'er all, their precious perfume fling, Through branches comes a fragrant, playful breeze, The ground lies carpeted with wild anemones. -Mary Vance Trent

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SPRING WOODS IN APRIL

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THE PIECE AND THE PAWN CHARLES HAGEDON l Losiwdots HE clock struck ten. Professor Mastro- van Was still bent over his chess table in the library. He was working indefatigably over a chess problem. It was one that seem- ingly fascinated him, but yet one whose perfect solution had so far eluded him. The one move that stood between his- mas- tery of a perplexing situation of pieces was just beyond his reach, now so near and yet, ever so distant. The room, which was lined with row upon row of shelves towering toward a lofty ceiling, had become slightly close and stuffy. Despite the cool dampness of the atmos- phere outside and the largeness of the room, there would have greeted one, should anyone have come into the room, a strange odor. It was a thick, heavy odor, a min- gling of smouldering fire, which had been laid in the fireplace some hours back, of the smell of stale pipe smoke, and the steam of strong coffee. All of these were mater- ially helping in the solution of the puzzle. It was no ordinary problem. It had involved days of study and careful, patient work. Still the thing was unsolved. The professor would keep this up until he had mastered it and then would start another. His chess was his life. A man of independent position and letters, his game had become his one love, his passion, and his vice. His only friends were his club fel- lows and his servants, other society than this he shunned. Mastrovan was rapidly be- coming a soul apart, a man with one reign- ing ambition, a man whose system of nerves was reaching a precarious position. The last echo of the eleventh chime had died away, and all was still except for the wind moaning and the rain pattering around the gables of the old Tudor house. Without, there was the rhythmic clanking of an old iron gate, forced to and fro by the mys- terious wind. In the great library, the fire had sunk in blackness, and even the electric globe in the lamp by the chess table gave off a lesser radiancyg the room seemed smaller. The shadows had aggressed from the black stillness of their corners, creat- ing an even darker stigma upon the room. Mastrovan sat stooped in his chair. His hand was placed over his eyes, possibly to shade and rest them. Perhaps he had fall- en asleep. There was no sound in the great