Central Junior High School - Junior Classic Yearbook (South Bend, IN)

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QE The Junior Classic 39 Mother's New Shoes I hate to do it. but Mother simply must have her new shoes for Christmas. YVith this resolution in mind, little twelve-year-old Bobby Loring Hew to the corner where he kept his cap and coat, followed by his dog, Pal. who could not have his young master out of his sight. Bobby's mother had often planned to sell Pal. because he made an additional expense to the already-small income of Mrs. Loring, who had been the bread-winner of the family since the death of her husband, seven years before. But because of the great love between the boy and dog, she couldn't bear to bring unhappiness into her young son's life. Bobby had already suffered very greatly from poverty. Bobby soon had his wraps on. He ran to the window and looked down upon the deserted street. lVhen he had made certain that his mother was not coming. he ran to the cupboard and from the contents of a cracked cup drew a short. stubby pencil. He picked up a piece of cardboard from the floor and hastily he wrote: FOR SALE Pal seemed to sense that his master was planning to sell him, for the dog lay at his feet. silently looking at him with a hurt and innocent look in his eyes. Half an hour later Bobby and Pal were sit- uated on a corner of the busiest section of town. The boy stood with his arms around the dog. Many people gave them a second glance and passed on. It was rapidly getting colder and the snow was falling faster. Bobby still stayed, his little body almost numb from the cold. Fewer people passed. and Bobby knew that night was not far off. I-Ie started to go home three or four times. but the thought of his mother without her new shoes kept him there. A white-haired gentleman looked at Bobby, then looked again as though he could not be- lieve his eyes. E lVhat is your name. my lad? he asked in a kind voice. Oh, sir, Bobby cried. will you buy my dog? My name is Bobby Loring. How much do you ask for him? asked the gentleman with a catch in his voice. for Bobby had reminded him of someone very near and dear to him. Do you think ten dollars is too much? And please. sir. treat him nice. for next to my mother. he is the best friend I have. I'll give you fifty dollars if you take me to your mother. said the old gentleman. YVhy, sir, I'll take you to her without you paying me, said Bobby. The boy was surprised at the old man's last remark, and showed it in his voice. Shall we go now? he asked. The old man nodded his head in assent. They soon reached the shabby tenement building where the Lorings were forced to live. Bobby ran up the stairs followed by Pal and the stranger. Mother, he cried, this man wishes to see you. ll'ho, dear? asked his mother. But just then she caught sight of the stranger and recog- nized him. Father. you forgive me. she cried, as she ran into the outstretched arms of the man. Yes, daughter. but I must ask you to for- give me. The boy looked on this scene very mystitied. His mother had never seemed so happy. Bobby and Pal never forgot that Christmas, for Bobby's mother was restored to her former posi- tion as the highly honored daughter of Judge Marshall. which she had forfeited by marrying a common laborer. But the thing that made Bobby the happiest was his mother's new shoes. Dear old Pal, mother got her new shoes, but I-still have you. There never was a hap- pier boy than I am. C.u-mir: Hixsoy, 9B. Three Thoughts Amid the pillars of the court. where the even- ing lights were lingering, where the waters of the fountain dripped quietly into the depths of a purple pool. there the rosy swan pierced the stillness with his cries. It was a lavender garden, sweet with violets. fragrant with lilacs and nestling mignonette. The laughing holly-hocks purpled the evening shadows. A twisting brook rippled over a dam of cool stones. A bird twittered softly. A wind-blown sail on a frothy foam, A sky of heavenly blue, And a sea-gull circling overhead Over sand of a dull gold hue. -LL'cii.Ls Scum-:i.r., 9B. IPaze Fifty-threel

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7,11- i GE The Junior Classic QED The Afternoon Ride of Patricia Lee Patricia Lee sighed heavily as she gazed around the large, well-furnished room. Indeed. it was hard to be left alone with an eighty- year-old grandmother when one was but sixteen. She gazed desolately out of the window at the birds chirping lightly. and spattering their wings in the marble bird bath. She noticed how radiantly beautiful the sun was, while the Howers nodded their dainty heads in silent ap- proval. Suddenly her eyes perceived an object which brought a sunny smile to the formerly pouting lips. lVith a sudden decision, she left the room. She ran up the stairs, two at a time. and finally reached the top. where she promptly ran down the hall to a large room at the end. Here she burst in like a young whirlwind, awakening an old lady whose head had begun to nod like a drooping dahlia. Come, Grandmother, get your wraps, Patricia commanded. It's too nice a day to stay inside. The fiustered old lady obeyed meekly, won- dering what was going to happen. She was shooed down stairs and helped out to the drive. There, standing in it, was an im- pudent little Ford. It's brother's, Patricia explained, but I'm going to drive it. Oh, pshaw, no Y the old lady exclaimed, her glasses falling off her nose in her excitement. Oh, it's all right. I never have driven a Ford, but I guess it's like every other car. Here, I'll help you in. VVith many protests the old lady was ushered into the luxurious and spacious depths of a Ford coupe. I-I-m-m 1 mused Patricia, wonder what all the pedals are for? I'm going to get out, announced the old lady uneasily. Noi You stay right here--whoops! Here we go. and with a 'jerk they sped down the drive. Myf where are the brakes? Patricia ex- claimed. A sudden bump caused the old lady's foot to slip out and push one of the pedals. lVith a squeaking, grinding noise the car slowed down. Good for you. Grandma, said Pat. How did you know those were the brakes? Brakesf repeated the old lady dazedlv- Oh. pshawl Oh. inyl Dear! Dear! ' XVhat's wrong? Good heavens! -if -b if if IPage Fifty-twol The morning sun streamed through the win- dow. Patricia .opened one eye. the other being bandaged for some unknown reason. The eye gazedgslowly around the room. showing sur- prise. Suddenly she sat up. With a groan she lay back on the pillows -0-h. I'm sore Beg pardon, Miss, began the maid Grandmotherf Patricia screamed with sudden thought. It's all mv faultg shes old. eed. she is. Miss: ut s e's a riv Your brother is giving her lessons in running a Ford, right now 'Oh. said Patricia. and she sank back against the pillows. Lessons, she repeated, chuckling to herself Jaxsr Brno 9B How to Judge a Picture Above all, I might say that the education of most of us who have been born in America has been neglected in respect to art. You will look at pictures and admire them. But have you the ability to judge a picture? No, very few of us have. But you will notice, when you arc in an art gallery, that most of the famous paint ings have been painted by French, Italian, or Dutch artists. In looking at a picture the first question we should ask ourselves is regarding the ma terial, or technical features of it. The two lead ing features of painting are form and color, and, as distinguished from the other iine arts, principally color. It is my purpose to point out what I deem to be false and crude in art, as well as to in dicate what is good. So. the first caution I may offer regarding color is: beware of bright pic tures, for they are generally bad. Some of the greatest masterpieces, especially among the Venetians and the modern Spaniards. are highly keyed in color and brilliant in effect. Color does not mean brightness alone. It does not mean that a colorist is one who deals in flaming colors. But he is one who justly re gards the relationship. the qualities. harmony, shadow, half-tint or bright light. Do not be led astray, then, by glare or glit ter, or gaudy picture. Follow the same good judgment you perhaps display in daily life. XIIOLET GRo:H.aNs 9.-K. S I RIO I 13' 3. L I so Ind , is h 11 ght. I I ..' ' , . 'i -'z 3 -5- . M . P31 T3 ie- as Er

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QE The Junior Classic 26 The Seller of Dreams iAnother of Puck's Mischievous Pranksj P.1.P.'r 1 Dreadful! Absolutely dreadful! Don't come in here again unless you have something good. I'm too busy for all this stuff. The busy editor turned back to his work after handing a manu- script of poems to a very discouraged young man. The young man took them ruefully, and pulling his nearly threadbare coat about him. shambled into the streets. Coming to a dingy building. he climbed the stairs and opened th-2 door into a bare little room. There was no food. nothing! His last supply of poetry had been refused. and sitting down on the small cot. he let his mind fill with bitter thoughts. He blamed the editorsg he blamed the tenements where he was raisedg he blamed all things. At last. growing weary, his thoughts ceased. and he fell asleep, bitter and starving. PART 2. Dreams to selll Dreams to selll The price of one night's sleep V' So softly called the Seller of Dreams as he flew from one house to another with his bag of dreams. The dreams were like balloons. huge and differently col- ored. There were red dreams of ambition, yel- low ones of wealth. and ugly purple night- mares. Then there were others that contained the precious dust: but the Seller of Dreams distributed all dreams wisely and carefully, suit- ing each to the personis tastes. One. a small fairy dressed in green. with a white plume in his hat, sat on a toadstool, whistling merrily. He was thinking how much fun it would be to deliver the dreams. This small fairy was Puck. sometimes called Robin Goodfellow. a most mischievous fairy. This particular evening, in early twilight. he slipped away with the bag of dreams over his shoulder before it was time for the Seller of Dreams to start out. Oh. what a mixed-up night it was! Every one got the wrong dream. But worse trouble was to come. lVhen Puck came to the poor room of the poet, he reached deep down in the bag and took out a small rainbow dream filled with the wonderful golden dust. It was the dream of Fairyland. S In the meantime Queen Titania and King Overon were much upset. ln fact, all Fairyland was upside down. Puck had disappeared with the bat: of dreams. and goodness knows what would happenf Fairies Hew out and found that the dreams had been delivered, but no Puck could they find. lVorse still. the bag of dreams came floating back to Ifairyland of its own accord. But Puck would not come. VVhat should they do? There was a shrill whistle and Puck came into view. sitting on the hand of the poet who was laughing merrily. 'When he saw the fairies, he stopped short, but his sense of humor made him laugh again. The kings crown was awry- toadstools and flowers were upturned. Every- thing looked so different from his beautiful dream. May I write a poem about these strange happenings? he asked everybody in general. Noi said the king. Yesf said the queen. But, my dear, said the king, no mortal is allowed to report the doings in Fairyland, and- But, my dear, interrupted the queen, he has brought back Puck, whom I love, even though he is naughty. All right, said the king wearily, surren- dering as usual to the queen. PART Now, this is something like it, said the editor. It'll just do for the Childrenls Page. The young mans face fell. But don't you worryf continued the editor. Your fortune's made, my man. W'e'll take all the poems like these you've got. The young man's smile was cheerful as he again went out into the street. I guess I'l.l change my residence. he thought humorously, thanks to that little green fairy they call Puck. BETTY' BRUGGI-:R, 9.-X. The Wreck A crashing sound rang through the crisp Win- ter air. A heavy stillness followed. My eyes spanned the horizon. Nothing! The monotony of the deep hush that prevailed was like a jave- lin piercing my consciousness. Fear crept into my heart, not for myself. but for the danger that might be. My eyes closed, only to Find my- self imagining dead bodies scattered upon the ground. with pools of blood beside them. lVas this dream of blood the red flag of warning against danger? My eyes opened. and through the corners of them I could see a dull red, re- sembling the How of tire. I turned-about. In my fear I had forgotten a gale that was blowing. and. in turning violently toward the lPa1ce Fifty-fourl