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

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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

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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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EXCAVATIONS INTO KNOWLEDGE