Broad Ripple High School - Riparian Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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Nineteen Thirty-Seven Nineteen SWEET SIXTEEN By VIRGINIA LANG ELOISE flounced across the room and flung herself headlong onto the couch. Promptly, she buried her chubby little face in a nearby pillow, kicked her feet high in the air and sobbed. Her young should- ers heaved convulsively as she hugged the pillow to her tear-stained face. Mrs. Adams gave a deep sigh and with a mourn- ful nod of her head, turned her attention to a towel she was embroidering. In a few minutes, she stole a slight glimpse at her daughter and at the sight of several fat tears wallowing lazily on the pillow, said sharply. Eloise Adams, enough is enough! Crying won ' t get you anywhere. No sir, not with me, it won ' t. You think I ' ll take pity on you, and I usually do; but no, siree! not this time. Now listen here, . . . you might just as well sit up and talk sense, because you certainly are getting nowhere. Don ' t you realize that girls your age . . . but Eloise, with a sudden alertness that had not been visible for the three hours, jumped to her feet and shouted, I am six- teen! Mrs. Adams wagged her head, returned her be- loved daughter ' s glare, and said, Now, don ' t shout at me, young lady. No use your having a tantrum and going into a fit of rage. I know you are sixteen; (goodness knows you remind me of it often enough) I know you like a good time. Who doesn ' t? But I also know that your father told me to tell you that you either come in at 11:30, or you don ' t go out! He means 11:30, too, Eloise, and not 11:35. At the conclusion of this speech, Eloise rose and made her way steadily to the door. Once there, she whirled about and with frantic swishing of her arms yelled at her mother, Sweet Sixteen! I don ' t see anything sweet about it. All I ' ve done and heard since my last birthday has been, ' But, Eloise, dearie, you ' re only sixteen ' . Well, I ' m sick of being sixteen! I ' m sick of being preached at about what time I should come in. Why, mother, I don ' t see how you can sit there and so placidly say those cruel things to me! Don ' t you realize (I don ' t suppose you do though), that they never serve the eats at a party until 11:30; and don ' t you know that the really hoi music is never played until then? Why, mother, that ' s early. Just because Dad goes to bed as soon as he reads the paper is no sign I have to, is it? With brown eyes filled to the brim with stormy tears, hands clasped tightly together at her breast, she ran across the room and knelt at her mother ' s feet. There she turned those pleading eyes upward until they reached her mother ' s level gaze. Mrs Adams bit her lips, made a crooked stitch in the hem of her towel, and turned her gaze elsewhere. Eloise, having noticed this sudden change, droned on. Now really, mother dear, you wouldn ' t want me to stay home all the time, would you? You don ' t want to ruin my whole social career, do you? Of course you don ' t because if you were my only daughter, I couldn ' t possibly say those things to you; and I wouldn ' t make you come home just when the fun begins, even if you were only sixteen. By this time Mrs. Adams hands were fondly cares- sing Eloise ' s bright curls, and she was murmuring, O course not, dear, every time her young daughter paused for a much needed breath. Meanwhile Eloise was aware of the soothing and understanding effect her words had produced on her mother; so she cuddled closer and pleaded again with those pathetic brown eyes. Mother, dar- ling, won ' t you please talk to Dad? And Mrs. Adams just on the verge of saying she would, was rudely interrupted by a noisy outburst. Jimmie was home! With a deafening roar he shouted for his lunch and, in the same tone, demanded Eloise ' s where- abouts be made known. As his shouts penetrated the walls, Eloise rose, cast a disgusted look in the direction from which his voice was rising, kissed her mother and said, Please, Mother dear, ask Dad for me. Just as she reached the door, it was flung back, and in marched Jimmie. His hair was plastered with mud, and in his grimy fingers he held a luscious fishing worm. At the sight of Eloise pressed against the wall, he gave a whoop of joy and advanced maliciously toward her, dangling the worm proudly in the air. When she screamed, he shouted even louder and laughed delightedly. Mrs. Adams rushed into the room, separated a squealing Jimmie and a very angry Eloise. Eloise Adams, she shouted, Don ' t you ever let me see you slap your little brother again. Go to your room immediately. And furthermore, you either come home when your father tells you to or you can stay home! Eloise looked in bewildered surprise at her moth- er ' s back, and only at the sound of Jimmie ' s taunting voice did she realize what she had said. The battle was lost. With a look in which icy-fury and mar- tyred self commiseration struggled for supremacy, she walked slowly and silently up the stairs.

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Eighteen THE RIPARIAN THIRTY CENTS By REBECCA IRWIN IF ONLY I have enough, breathed Tom as he shook a few pennies out of his bank. One by one they fell to the rug. Three five-cent pieces fol- lowed, and then there was no more thin clinking of sounds. Tom had emp- tied the small iron bank entirely. One, two, four, five, continued the boy. Oh, shucks, five pennies and three nickles! I thought sure there was more than that! Let ' s see. And he rummaged through his pockets, pil- ing a heap of boyish belongings on the bed. A ball of twine, a scrap of paper, a stubby pencil, two nails, a key, a clip, a notebook, a pen-point, a knife and one shiny dime. I knew I had some more money some place. That ' s the dime Mrs. Graham gave me for minding the baby yesterday. Thir- ty cents. Well, that won ' t buy much. And Mother ' s Day is tomorow. Tom placed the miscellaneous articles back in his pocket, but carefully transferred the money to a separate one. Then he walked slowly downstairs and wandered out into the kitchen. He found his mother baking and cooking. Somehow, the sight of Mother rolling out cookies and moving about so gracefully in the bright kitchen brought a lump to Tom ' s throat. Thirty centsl Tom called to his mother, telling her that he was going down the street. I ' ll be back real soon, Muz. All right, son, smiled his mother, as she care- fully set a tray filled with hot, brown cookies on the table. When you come back, these will be cool, and you may have some. Thanks, Mother, said Tom, almost inaudibly. He fumbled for the latch on the door. Thirty cents! Thirty cents and Mother. The boy sauntered down the shopping street. His troubled eyes peered longingly into each window. There were lots of pretty things, $2.50 and up; $5.00 down, $1.00 a week. Tom saw the candy shop. He could get a quar- ter pound of milk chocolates that Mother liked. But a quarter pound was so little. For thirty cents he could buy about a pound of those licorice baby candies, but then, he liked them and Mother didn ' t. Tom looked at the silk stocking window a minute. They were out of the question. And even the pretty, fancy garters, with ribbon and rosebuds were fifty cents! Mother would adore those, yearningly Tom sighed. Suddenly a sign flashed before the boy ' s eyes. Flowers. Tom knew his mother loved flowers. She always had a nice garden in the summer, and dur- ing ' the winter she nursed along a plant or two, coaxing them to bloom for her. Tom walked boldly up to the window. Red roses! Red roses for love! That ' s what he wanted for HIS Mother. A blue- eyed girl came to wait on him. How much are roses? he asked carelessly, thinking to himself, At a dollar a dozen I can get Muz three, and some sprays of baby-breath to go with them. Roses are three dollars a dozen, the girl said. Tom ' s grin faded. Well, how much are sweet peas? If he couldn ' t have roses, . he would take sweet peas. Mother liked them. Seventy-five cents a bunch. Well, haven ' t you anything cheap- er than that? We have some small plants. What did you want to pay, sonny? The girl smiled understandingly. These be- gonias are nice; they are twenty-five. Muz has two begonias now, mourned Tom. Haven ' t you anything else? How much are those pretty red plants over there? The geraniums? They ' re forty cents. Tom ' s heart sank. He fingered the thirty cents in his pocket nervously. Turning away, he said, I ' ve only got thirty cents. The girl looked at the disappointed face. Then she turned questioning eyes to the proprietor, who nod- ded his he td ever so slightly. Oh, sonny, called the girl, I ' ll let you have the plant for thirty cents, if you want it. Oh, he gasped, will you really? I think that ' s great! I ' d like the red one, if you don ' t mind, please. Mother likes red flowers; she says they brighten up the house so. Yes, they do, agreed the girl. Here ' s a nice one, with two extra buds, and she was about to wrap it up. Oh, er, Charlotte, spoke the proprietor, just put one of those crepe-paper covers on that plant, will you? All right, smiled Charlotte. I think a green one looks best on this. Boy, that looks fine! exclaimed Tom. But I can ' t pay for that! Well, you see, the girl said, These are ten cents — usually; but not to you, since this is for your moth- er. Oh, thank you, and Tom gripped the plant tightly. It ' s awfully nice of you to give it to me. Muz, oh, Muz! called Tom excitedly as he ran into the house. Muz, see what I have for you. (Continued on Pago Twenty-nine)

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Twenty THE RIPARIAN MY GRANDFATHER As you sit there in your wicker chair, Arocking all day long, Now saying nothing, eyes a ' dreaming, Then humming an old love song — I sometimes wonder what you think, When your mind ' s so far away; Are you thinking of times when you were young. Or of loves of a by-gone day? Are you dreaming of old Kentucky, And the places you love so much; Are you dancing again to the music From an old-time fiddling touch? I, too shall grow old in the future And sit in my rocking chair, And then I ' ll know what you ' re dreaming As you sit arocking there. —DORAS CRANFILL. (Cut by Betty Applegate) FUTILITY For having failed to be a friend, Make me to spend the lonely hours. For having failed to see the beauty in the sunset, Take from me my sight. For having failed to find the loveliness of great music. Make me deaf. For possessing life and yet being so like the crawling things. Let me die. For I have not deserved to live. VANITY Hair pins, Powder puff, Cold cream, and tan. Nail polish Eyebrow stick, Ruffled gown, and ma n. -HARLESS WAGONER.