Andrews High School - Andronian Yearbook (Andrews, IN)

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....-..-..-.,- A N D R 0 N 1 A N -.,-..-..-..-..-.- -.-.---..--,-.-- ---J MY SMILE I'm wondering as I sit here With the light so dim and low, If others are tired as I am, And if life is all a show. Oh, it's good to take my smile off, When there's no one here to see, And rest my face until its time To go again, you see. I have noticed always When I forget my smile That others have the habit Of forgetting their's the while. So, I'll never leave my smile at home In spite of drear, dark days, But will take it ever with me, To be my pal always. -Nellie Anson. o A WINTER SCENE Unpainted, tall, and with an unimposing air, a farm house stood on a hill, on the western side of a forest, separated from it only by a road. The lawn, drifted with snow, seemed to claim the road as a part of itself enveloping it in a part of the drift. Two tall chimneys were built on the western and northern sides of the house. They seemed to have the attitude of stern sentinels guard- ing the two huge sugar-nut and maple trees to the west, and the three trees, two maple and the other a hack-berry, to the east. To the north, yet under the branches of the center maple tree, stood a snow man, obese to say the least, with his arms, which were stick- ing straight out, supported by forked branches. A branch with upward curving ends formed the suggestion of a hat brim. His features were made of twigs imbedded in his chilly snow-ball head. He, too, seemed to be a guardian of the hill, for he had two faces, one watching over the now ungraceful skeleton of a grape arbor, and the other commanding the enfenced entrance to the lawn. A brave little squirrel, an inhabitant of the forest who had defied the snowy guard, was industriously carrying some corn which he had discovered in the road, back to his home. He seemed to be the only cheer- ful being on that cheerless and sunless hill. But suddenly the inanimate scene changed. The house winked at the squirrel as the curtain at a window moved. The sun burst forth in I-:ni .1 5,1-.11 1-.init-1.1n1..1i.11-11-1- qaoinxnz--qui-as--1 -1.-11.11-1-.1--xozogoif :I inxnzo fv H n --..g. Flifvfjj-771.219

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I ini 1:11 1 211 1115111 11111 1:-ioilii A N D R 0 N I A N 101033- BE FIRST OF ALL A MAN I chanced to talk with an aged man, 'Twas only yesterday. His brow was furrowed, as with care, And his locks were hoary and grey. I told him of my goal-my dreams, And ambition's beckoning smile. I talked of vague and youthful schemesg He was silent all the while. When at last he spoke his voice was mild. My son, a word, said he, A word from one who from a child Has sailed life's turbulent sea. You'll find before on life's dim path You've ventured very far, 'Tis not so much you do that counts, As what you truly are. 'Tis well to struggle toward a goal,- To scheme, and dream, and plan, But, above all else remember son, Be first of all a man. a -Gerald Mygrant. o A UNIQUE PERSON The person I am describing is short and has the general appearance of an undersized barrel. He ambles about on his stavelike legs with a careless ease that gives you a greater conviction of the fact that the day of miracles has not passed. His countenance always has an assumed look of profound dignity and intelligence, which is made all the more effective by a sharp, pointed mustache which resembles the thorny growth sometimes seen in the pictures of men of the days when Napoleon knew every soldier in his army. He wants everything his own way and does not seem the least bit embarrassed by the remarkable distance extending between his feet and the floor when he sits on an ordinary chair. Although every- thing in the wav of encouragement has been used to stimulate a dense crop of hair on his still bald head, it has been to no avail for his crown is covered only by a few lonely hairs, which are made to appear much more scattered and fewer by his black mustache. His even blacker eyes are very expressive, either, lightening up his round face with a sparkling de- light, or placidly surveying the rest of the world with a much exaggerated air of indifference. -Clarence Wisner. Fifty eight

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1,1 1:-:ues -1 vi 1--101-CDI111-1-11-1110101 A N D R O N I A N 1011? one great fiood of brilliancy as he bid farewell to the squirrel, now scamper- ing over the picket fence across the road into the forest. -Virginia Streit. ' O A WINTER SCENE The room is bleak and chill. A deathlike stillness pervades the air, excepting the monotonous tick, tick of a clock in the far corner of the chamber. Through a frost-covered window can be dimly seen the break- ing day. The clock strikes, and its hollow cheerless note is presently followed by a muffled step on the stair. Who dares to intrude upon the sombre stillness of the room '? Presently a figure in white emerges from a draped doorway. It pauses as if in doubt, or is it in consternation? The figure silently and swiftly approaches an object, gleaming silver grey in the dim light, and after gazing at it for a time begins to mutter dire and vague forbodings in a foreign tongue. The mutterings become louder and more distinct as the white-clad figure turns and haltingly departs from the room. Steps are again heard on the stair and the grumbling voice gradually fades into the distance. 'Twas only poor father, and he had found the hard-coal burner out. -Gerald Mygrant. . O ' TO REDEEM A PLEDGE Daniel Ludwick was in his office disposing of his morning mail. He did not merely look it over-he always twith a few exceptions, of courseb decided the questions presented immediately. As he opened the last envelope. a blotter fell out, on it-, staring him in the face, was the direct accusation he dreaded, To Redeem a Pledge: 'He that hath wife and childrenj wrote Sir Francis Bacon, 'hath given hostages to fortunef 'Hml I've got the wife and children, and then he dropped his head. His pledge to maintain the immediate happiness and to insure the future of his beloved family was his failure. They had immediate happiness but -the future? Five years ago, when the Armistice was signed, he had been fairly bubbling over with energy. When he went back into his office after his experience in France in the World War, he had pledged himself to many unselfish things. But now, he thought, I have fallen into a rut, and all my old resolutions with me-but, thank Heaven l-not everybody knows them. No one shall know of my failures, but they shall know of my suc- cesses. He picked up the blotter-almost sacred to him now-and propped it up on the top of his desk. There it remained all day with Daniel Lud- wick. With a strange, serious expression on his countenance he looked at it again and again.