Ashtabula High School - Dart Yearbook (Ashtabula, OH)

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THE “DART” STAFFS. (For Names see Page 22)

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T HE 1) A R T 13 to come from under their very feet. For a moment they stood speechless. The cries rose louder and louder. With each cry Ferdie became paler, and finally Annabelle sank weak and helpless into a chair. Oh Ferdie, can’t you do something? she gasped—go see who it is. Maybe they’re dying or something. Oh hurry. I’m so frightened! Don’t look that way, Annabelle. Don’t you know that I’ll protect you? protested the hero, I’ll go and see what it is, and Ferdie strode down the steps. 1 he cries became more and more terrifying to each participant in this little drama with the exception of one. That one lay in close proximity with the floor of the porch and the foundation of the house. “ I hat’s it, he whispered hoarsely, squeal louder—why don’t you just yowl? ‘Make ’em sorry they ever chased me off my own front porch. Aw—hurry up ole thing, screech away er I’ll bust your head in. It was with uncertain step that Ferdinand De Dupit made his way down the steps and with still more wavering determination that he approached the region whence the sound issued. The barberry bushes grew thic kly about the porch, quite shutting from view the space roofed by the porch floor. Only by stretching out upon his stomach and wriggling had Henry succeeded in reaching his secluded refuge. Ferdie parted the bushes gently and peered in but merciful darkness obscured his view. Annabelle clung weakly to his arm, and with difficulty he finally focused his flash light on the object of interest. A human form lay quite still! Occasionally cries issued but they seemed weaker, almost as though the victim were reaching the end of his endurance. Annabelle suddenly screamed— Oh. its Henry and probably he’s dead. He insisted on eating the most horrible combinations tonight —molasses and sugar on custard pie, and he complained of not feeling well after it and—, One ear splitting scream rose upon the air then came silence. At this point Mr. and Mrs. I larrington becoming alarmed, left their library to inquire the cause of such disturbances. At the sight of her mother, Annabelle, weak and nervous from the excitement, began to cry. “It’s Henry, she sobbed, and I guess he’s dead under the porch, and Ferdie can’t get in because the hole's too small and— “ I here, there, soothed her mother, “I guess he’s all right. Maybe his stomach is out of order”. Mr. Harrington comprehended the situation. Memories of summer evenings, long ago, big sisters and sissy beaux surged thru his mind and with a smile of understanding he stepped quickly to the opening and in a voice too low for the others to hear called softly to Henry. Yes, sir, came the weak response. Mr. Harrington turned to the others. I think Fler.ry is feeling better now. he said, but perhaps if he could lie in the hammock— It was five minutes later when Henry safely ensconced in the hammock, with Mr. DcDupit disappearing in the distance, heaved a sigh of content. It was a dirty shame that I had to lose that good ole frog but it did the biz alright, didn’t it. dad? Did you hear it squawk when I finally got the snake to swallow it? Gosh, didn’t it scare Ferdie though? It squawked all the way down the snake and then it howled awful at the end. Did you hear it dad? Yes, son, I did hear it.” answered his father and then they were silent. I he Henry Harringtons were again in their rightful domain. A certain college professor wore side whiskers, and whenever he suggested removing them, there was a division of opinion in the family. One morning he appeared before his wife, razor in hand, and one side neatly shaved. How do you like it, my dear? he asked. If you think it looks well, I will shave the other side, too. —Independent.

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T H E D A R T 15 fCrttrra ij SECOND PRIZE STORY BY LOLA M. REMICK m O you believe lhat the reason the Germans are making such a strong drive against you at Verdun, is because their nerves have been so dulled by ether that they know no fear? I asked this question as a feeler, for I was working for a big human interest story for the Sunday supplement of my paper, The New York I imes. For months the papers had been filled with descriptions of military tactics, machine guns, and life in the trenches, all of which emphasized the statement that War is Hell. (The matter of fact English soldiers with whom I was talking, that of their part in the war in the same unromantic way that they had regarded their duties in the London offices, which they had left at their country’s call.] I had questioned in vain, in regard to deeds of heroism, thrills and sob stuff. These phlegmatic Englishmen had no desire for celebrity. As a last resort, 1 asked if there never was any romance connected with war. At this a slow smile spread over the faces of the soldiers, and then they burst into a hearty laugh. I noticed a young fellow who was called E. Rawdon, by his fellow soldiers. (I knew his name was Dick and had wondered at the E), who seemed to appreciate the apparent joke more than the others, and also seemed to be exceedingly embarrassed. Well, the joke is on me, and I guess it is up to me to tell it, he began. You can take it or leave it, but I think you will realize my feelings in the affair. “You see, one day, as some of us were conversing, mostly about the last attack, some fragments of cloth, paper and shavings came floating down by us. I his was nothing very unusual, for the packings of bombs often are blown long distances after the explosion. As I talked, I picked up a bit of newspaper, and casually read the words: Societv wel- comes the opening of a new country place at Bar Harbor this week by Frances Manning, well known in society circles. I remarked how exceedingly interesting was this bit of news, and passed the paper around. I hat was the beginning of the end, for someone, I can’t tell who, (lucky for them) suggested that Dick Rawdon write to the young society belle and thereby create a love romance. It didn’t take much urging, for with my love of excitement, I thot it would be an interesting adventure and it was interesting all right! 1 he first letter I wrote read something like this: My Dear Miss Manning: I am a poor but distinguished Englishman, serving my country in the war. I learned from a newspaper article that I happened to pick up that you have opened a new country home at Bar Harbor. Now, I know you will take pity on a poor lonesome soldier, and make me happy by writing to me. Address, Dick Rawdon, Regiment 3, before Verdun. Well, as soon as an answer could be expected, one came. It was a very nice little note, short but sweet, saying that she was interested in soldiers and would like very much to hear from me again. And you can bet that it wasn’t long before she did. I he brief formal notes gradually led to a steady correspondence. Her letters were lovely, and enough to make anyone fall in love with her. And that is just what I did. or thot I did. Each time her letters were more intimate, and in reply to an unusually friendly one, I wrote something like this: Dearest Frances: You have made me so happy. Your letters