Arsenal Technical High School - Arsenal Cannon Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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..... ..... 6111919 iipuukp walk By Margaret Robertson Such a night I can never forget. The wind blew at a terrific gait, bending the branches of the trees almost to the ground, and sending things flying through the air. But a star shone in the sky: the moon had disappeared, the earth seemed to have been turned into a darkened land where witches and hosts of weird figures might dance in glee. I stumbled along in the dark,-hardly daring to breathe. The howling wind made cold chills run up and down my spine. Would I never get home! Ten more blocks! At twelve oiclock on such a ghost-like night! I quickened my steps but my legs refused to keep it up. I soon was worn out and nearly dragged along in the dark, with the constant expectation of seeing some superhuman figure swoop down from a tree to carry me off into the land of spooks. lVIy heart thumped harder and harder as I neared the Arsenal Grounds. At that time I received a rap on the head and quaking with fear I looked up, expecting to see a ghost or some other un- canny creatureg but it was only a bough bending low. The fe-nee loomed up like a row of giants, I could picture myself being rashly torn to pieces by some demon of the lower world, or being lifted up in a whirl wind, as a gust of wind swept up behind me and nearly carried me off my feet, and left me in such a frightened state that I felt my heart thumping like sixty. Nine more squares! Oh! would I never get home? What was that noise? Someone coming behind me? Shaking with fear I turned around only to find that it was a branch swaying in the wind. Nearer and nearer I came to the Arsenal Gate. My knees shook so, that I could hardly walk, then I tried to think of all the brave men fighting in France, and it seemed to strengthen me a little. Thump! Ouch! I suddenly found myself in a forlorn heap on the brick walk. Who tripped me? I looked aroundg did I see someone peeking at me from behind that tree? Yes! it was,-well, whatever it was, I scrambled to my feet and started to run. I hardly dared to look behind me, but finally I gathered enough courage to turn around, nothing was coming except a furious gust of wind. Oh! I-Iorrors! There went my hat sailing through the air! And I was at the Arsenal Gate. Should I go in there after my hat? Yes, it was the only one I had and pay-day a week off! Creak! Creak! lVIy whole body shook as I noiselessly went in search of my hat. Behind the clump of bushes seemed to come the wavering sound of

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Elf 25it nf Qllap The first time I can remember of seeing the queer, pathetic little canti-air,, we cannot hope either to disable or bluff an enemy His clothes flapped in the gale like the torn sail on a wrecked ship's mast, and with just that suggestion of desolation. He was as inani- mate as a dead leaf blown toward me by a mischievous gust. Even his eyes wore the set, weary expression of an old, ill-treated work- horse, who plods on and on, stumbling a little, beaten perhaps, ever bearing a burden too heavy for him. He always carried a great limp bag on his back. I had often wondered what was in it. I liked to fancy that little old man, whose shoulders must be so tired, and whose heart must be so weary of plodding, plodding, carried his sorrows in that bag. He spoke to no one. He seemed to see nothing. Lilacs bloomedg the little old man with the heavy bag could not see them. If he had whistled, or spoken, that wierd, unnatural air about him would have vanished -but he was always silent-always mute, always appealing. and always starting, as it seemed to me, on a unending journey, with his pack. I could fancy, too, that he knew there was no turning of his road, but was so helpless, so resigned to his tragedy that he never questioned. ' One morning I turned the corner where I always met him, but no plodding figure slumped dejectedly past me. HPerhaps he has reached the end of his journey,', I told myself. And I felt a queer sort of loneliness creep over me, for the little figure had been the embodiment of my own sadden moods. But somehow, I could never think of him without his burden, I suppose now he is still plodding along to-somewhere, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his unwieldy bag across his curved shoulders-plodding, plodding- through eternity. 000000 flln Elilar ffliime fWith apologies to Alfred Noyes.J Come out to Tech in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time, Come out to Tech in lilac-time, It isnit far from heaven. And there you'll wander, books in hand, With oy, in summer's wonder-land. Come out to Tech in lilac-time, It isn't far from heaven.

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THE ARSENAL CANNON 25 a voice, I covered up my ears. Where was my hat? Nearer the haunted house I went! There was my hat laying near the rock by the house. Almost happily I stooped to pick it up, just as the wind swept it out of my reach and,-oh! it went on the porch of that haunted house! lVIy heart seemed to stop as I neared that house. The window panes rattled! Creak! Creak! as the door swayed back and forth on its hinges! What! A ghost! Yes! it was coming toward me! I turned to run! But my hat! I couldn't go without it! I stepped on the porch. What a scrunch- ing noise! And that ghost peering out the window at me! I seized my hat and with a cry I leaped off the porch, a ghost follow- ing at a swift gait! I ran and ran,-not stopping for an instant,-- not daring to look behind me. Two more squares yet to go! Breathlessly I rushed on! Swifter came the ghost! Easter came the wind! Now only one square to go! I couldn't stop! The ghost! Now the sight of home! Joy forever! I slackened my pace! Now I was really on the porch! I pushed open the door, hastily locked it! And-all was well. IVIARGARET RoBERTsoN. 00 040 is fCEiJuIiJie1f fCEIJuit Harriette Callahan How often do small children hold the wheel of Destiny in their hands! And how often do they turn it for the best! Major Leslie Barthal, commander of a huge training camp in Suffolk, England seated at his desk one day, working, felt an impatient tugging at his elbow. Looking up, he saw his four-year-old son Jimmie standing there. 6!Daddy, Lithen! Couldnit you get me a little tholdier thuit? Ist like yourrh, only littler? Major Barthal's eyes twinkled, but he answered gravely, uJimmie, only men who do things to benefit their country are permitted to wear a uniform. If you do something big, to help your country, I'll make you an officer, promptf' Jimmie was disappointed, but he saluted his superior, and scampered off. Suffolk Training Camp was the center of supplies for the English Army in Britain. Both the commissary and the munitions were located in great warehouses, near the centre of the camp. These were guarded closely, though air raids had not yet become alarmingly frequent. Early in May, General Alex Johnson, on a furlough from Hover there , came to Suffolk on an inspection tour.