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

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POEMS IN THE MODERN IDIOM AUTOMATIC FEEDER Vsaw an automatic press feeder. Swiftly doing its work at tfie right moment. Undaunted by tiie mighty power of the press So solemnly thumping and clanking in its rhythmic way. While three shining fingers are bringing in the sheet. Two more steel fingers are placing printed sheets in a pile More neat than ever any man would stack. If the feeder gets out of adjustment, and no man there Has troubled himself to set it right again. Running wild, it covers itself with torn, jammed paper. Resulting in such turmoil that it looks impossible Ever to get it working right again. After some man has erred, has made a mistake. The white of the paper is smudged by the black of the ink. The designer has provided for this emergency By causing a bell to ring whenever it happens. So is the joy of living greyed by regret. Has our Designer some far reaching plan? Are wars, depressions, but the warning bells To tell us when we, human machines, err? David Hyde PERPETUAL MOTION THRESHING MACHINE he roaring, chug chugging, the perpetual motion mechanical giant. Of wheels, and arms, and rods always moving. It belches forth a cloud of dust and chaff; The throb, the heart, the pulse of the monster. Gently it drops a steady stream of golden grain; Opening, closing, rotating, never stopping. monster. Whose insatiable appetite must be appeased By the shocks from the wagon, drawn alongside. More power, more power, more power, repeating; On the go, on the go, on the go, replying; Keep it up, keep it up, keep it up, unceasing; np, .11 r .1 u- f f f f f r- B Y iQ steady rium or trie macrune, Don ' t slack, don t slack, don ' t slack, your working. ,11 r 1 it Like the roar 01 a hungered beast, EI .If... I Ceases only when the bundles become clogged, ach part a dehnite work Each work a definite part Then with a weary sigh. In the puzzle of it all, revolving before me. The great machine becomes quiet. Margaret Stadler Helen Bowen

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ON GROWING SHELVES Shelves are just like rabbits ' — they multiply. There is no way to stop them. No matter what you may do. they re as sure as aeath or taxes. They come in all shapes, colors, sizes; and once in a while you rind them hiding under a nom de plume like bric-a-brac stands. We II take an average American home. The Potters have started out simply with rive shelves, classi- fied as such and known as such. Two of the shelves were wedding presents and are gaily decorated with gilt. They repose in the kitchen and are used as holders of string, recipes, baby s rattle. Mr. Potter ' s pipe, and two decayed bon bons. The other shelves are used for books and back issues of Liberty. Then comes the spring. Mrs. Potter decides to try her hand at canning. Two days later there are four more shelves in the basement. Before long they are covered with enough jam and jelly to feed all of the starving Armenians. Then the Potters really go shelf crazy and buy thirteen more shelves. These are scattered through the house. The shelf in the bathroom is covered with old razor blades, seven discarded tootpaste tubes, and a bottle of mouthwash into which the cork has slipped. The shelf in the nursery (a gaudy affair) is replete with two of baby ' s first teeth, one blue ribboned mitten with a piece of caramel in the thumb, and a wheel from the perambulator. This is but a small portion of what is duplicated throughout the house. The last I heard, the Potters were moving out to make room for the shelves. You must realize that this is merely a cross-section of all American homes. There are societies to stamp out war. Why not societies to stamp out shelves? Will we let this evil raise its ugly head in the midst of our American society? Will we? The answer is, we probably will. George Taylor FAREWELL RIPPLE 7. here is a winding river That swiftly flows along— It passes by Broad Ripple High, Far famed in tale and song. You were a little school house once, In days not long gone by— But now you tower with the best. You Grand, Old Ripple High! We 11 ever sing your praises As we pass life ' s way along. For in your buildings are your courts But in our hearts, your throne. Irene Westervelt

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APRIL MORNING IT WAS a misty golden morning in April, vitn the sun as hot as June, a sweep of wild roses every- where—over hedges and fences, under foot, along the paths, by the brook— with the scent of the deep mauve lilacs mingling with the abounding fragrance. The day promised to be almost an Alice in Wonderland day. Father had hitched up Joggles to the cart and told us we could have an all day picnic. As we rode along the road people called to us from the side, and we waved in return. Passing around the edge of Rofarnham village, we found ourselves once more on a country highway, with the faint gray blue of the Rockies far ahead. On either side of us were green meadows laughing in the sunshine. Hear the brook! It s going right along with us, ' exclaimed Eileen. Will you please stop, Keith? said Nancy, and our driver obediently pulled up. Nancy was out of the cart in a flash, and running over to the twisting silver stream that bordered the right side of the road in a zigzag fashion, she knelt and gathered up something. Coming back to the cart she held out a mass of pale gold blossoms to us. Primroses! They started at this spot and kept with us to the end of the road. The yellow border of the brook stayed with us and at very regular intervals were pink and vhite hawthorne. The hill that towered beyond held a hint of mystery. At the foot of Queen s Hill we climbed out and decided just to roam up the hill as slowly or as fast as we wished. All about, on each side, and at the back of us, was the forest, with its sunlit wooded aisles, and as we listened we could hear the scampering of the small animals, startled by our arrival. Once a young doe peered from behind a bush, but quickly disappeared. Beyond, where the sun could not pene- trate, there was a sweep of gold— a wild stretch of primroses and cowslips helping to lighten the gloom. Half way up the hill was a hollow, where we stayed for some time. As far as we could see, all down the hill toward the valley, were mists of white and pink; apple and cherry trees. Below the trees were drifts of gold and deep flashes of blue, shading here and there as wild violets and primroses mingled with the unearthly brilliance of a late carpet of bluebells. -—Betty Jayne Sweetman