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Page 18 text:
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THE FRESHMAN The C A wee naughty kidlet. With hungry look, Talking or giggling. Or dropping a hook, Chewing a pencil. Or writing a note. No time for his lessons Has he to devote. THE JUNIOR. A girl with a physics in her hand, A picture of despair. She wanders up and down the halls Then sits upon the stairs. She chats awhile, then reads a line. And then she chats some more. And then, at recitation time. She ‘'flunks’ as oft before. An exception. 12 lasses THE SOPHOMORE. A bumptious youthlet. With haughty air. Who gives the Freshmen The “stony stare.” With face red hot And excited greeting. Just got. out Of society meeting. THE SENIOR. A youngster with deep-set look on his face. Roaming around from place to place. “He's seeking for knowledge you'd naturally think. But he’s really searching For somebody's ink.
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Page 17 text:
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In the prairie land on the shore of the Father of Waters, Wind-swept, sun kissed still, the little village of Chester Nestles 'mong pebbly hillsides, Vast meadows stretch to the eastward, Giving a place for the school, And a playground tor youths without number. Here, tasks by the brains of the pupils Were finished, mid hopes of the future. Here, Caesar and the oft-quoted Virgil Were murdered with vengeance unswerving. On tranquil evenings of autumn, When brighth the sunbeams Lighted the village streets, And gilded the top , of the chimneys. Sophomores and Juniors lolled In listless study; and others Sat at the long oaken tables, Spinning their awkward stories. Food for the gossiping Profs, Whose endless lectures of fiction. Mingle their hum with the drone of the school. Or the fitful titter of maidens; Along with these sounds was a voice That whispered ‘‘Despair not.” It is the month of May And we arc approaching the season, When reign perpetual summer. With labor and heart-aches unnumbered, The essays were finished. And brightly, the last day dawned. And as softly sank into twilight. Filled were the hearts with love. And with the thoughts of approaching departure. As, one by one, our schoolmates Poured out their souls in words And their voices died into silence. To dear ones, departing, we murmured “farewell. “Farewell floated back as they passed o'er the threshhold And swiftly they followed the flight Of those who had passed on before them, Blown by the blast of fate. Like a dead leaf over the meadow. Sallfe Ballard.
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