Conneaut High School - Tattler Yearbook (Conneaut, OH)

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8 THE TATTLER many strings of bright colored beads. His eyes were black as coal and when he laughed, his white, even teeth were seen. But there, he has stopped playing, and there appears a tiny monkey in a red hat and coat. We had not noticed him before, for he had been curled up by the parrot’s cage, fast asleep, until Guiseppe awakened him, and bade him “get the pennies.” Off came his tiny hat. He walked up to the crowd of boys and girls who had gathered about, and soon his hat was filled with pennies, nickels and dimes, which I think were well earned. In Guiseppe’s native land, Italy, he told us that the little children are always on the watch for a hurdy-gurdy, because they are fond of dancing to its music. I can remember when I used to watch for one, too, can’t you? —Alyce Morton ’20. A DAY OF MISHAPS. My mishaps began the first thing in the morning by my button-hook’s persistence to keep out of sight. No matter where I hunted, no buttonhook came to view. At breakfast, my elbow came in contact with the milk pitcher. You may imagine the rest! A picture of me sitting with a quart of milk in my lap and a look of blank astonishment on my face! If anyone could have secured that picture and sent it to a photo contest, the editors would never have parted with it, and given it three first prizes. Yes, sure enough, they would have! During my process of dressing for school, troubles were resumed. My hair brush and comb are mischievous as it is, but on this particular morning when everything was in a tantalizing mood, they acted like the naughtiest of naughty children. My comb became entangled in a mass of knots, and imagine my plight. At last I disentangled it, but a generous handful of hair accompanied it. Ties became crooked, ribbons acted as if they had never seen starch. At last I turned my attention to my room. There I was, standing among mountains of hats, islands of clothes, and archipelagoes of shoes, for I had just come home from my vacation the night before and had had no time to settle down. I was almost in despair, but I set to work with a resolute air, and by the time school time came, I had disposed of the mountains and islands. And then at school—oh! I never want such another school day. My pen was found under my paper knife, and the paper knife came to view beneath the largest and heaviest book in my possession. On my way from one classroom to another, while ascending the stairs, my ankle turned, books, pencils, pens and papers flew right and left. Oh, but where I had rather been than there. Any place T am sure. At last my possessions were collected and I went on my way. It seems that this was not to be the last I would heard of that mysterious little brownie who is continually hiding our belongings, for my gloves and hat disappeared from the cloak room, and search where I might, I never found them.

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C. J. FREW, The Florist, 213 Broad St., Phone 1281-Main. 7 soon found myself fastened to a habit which is so hard to overcome. One day while in one of my worst conditions my father happened to pass through the town and although I was now a grown man he recognized his son at once. He took me very kindly into his buggy and turned the horse toward home. I was put into my own comfortable bed that I had left several years before. When I awoke in the morning I was bewildered. What could it all mean? Had I had a dream? Everything was just as I had left it on that bright, sunny morning. Then thoughts of my mother came crowding to my mind and a fearful dread came over me. I arose hastily, dressed and hurried down stairs. Father was reading. • ‘Where’s mother?’ I gasped. ‘John, your mother has gone to her final resting place and her last words were of you, my dear boy.’ Oh, how my heart ached. Right then and there I vowed I would mend my ways. I have spent many hard years in overcoming my great enemy, drink, and by the grace of God, let us hope I have throughly succeeded. Boys, take my advice, make every hour, minute and second count.” —Harriet S. Hogle ’20. THE HURDY-GURDY. “Listen, what is that?” asked brother. “Oh! I know,” he shouted, a moment later. “Come on, sister, here it comes!” He caught little sister’s hand, and away they sped down the street, for was not the most wonderful instrument they had ever known coming slowly down the street this very minute? Soon it come in view, and both brother’s and sister’s eyes, ears and mouths were wide open to catch every sound that issued forth from the old, dilapidated hurdy-gurdy. On each side of this wonderful and interesting instrument were painted bright pictures. One was a market scene depicting happy, smiling peasants selling their wares to the passers-by. The other was a picture of a castle in Milan. Lords and ladies strolled here and there in the beautiful gardens. Flowers were everywhere. The trees were full of beautiful birds with gaily colored plumage and, no doubt, they were singing their best songs to the people of the castle. A cage containing a gaily colored, lively little parrot was hung near the front of the hurdy-gurdy, and the parrot was doing his best to keep up with the lively music. The whole affair was drawn by a patient, sleepy little mule, who looked as if he had never enjoyed a square meal in his life. But the owner, who was an Italian, was the queerest of all. T do not remember his name, so suppose we call him Guiseppe. He wore a queer little black velvet jacket, which was prettily embroidered with beads, and under the jacket was worn a bright yellow blouse. The knee-breeches he wore, might have at a time been a bright red velvet, but they were so worn and shabby, that little color was distinguishable. He wore a wide sash, in which appeared every color imaginable. On his head was a funny turban of bright orange, and here and there glimpses of black curly hair could be seen. Large gold rings hung from his ears and around his neck he wore

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C. J. FREW, The Florist, 313 Broad St., Phone 1381Main. 9 That night just as I was about to jump into bed, the bottom of my foot found a tack. The yell I gave echoed and re-echoed. This was a finishing touch, I suppose to my day of mishaps. —Alyce M. Morton ’20. RULES AND REGULATIONS FOR THE TYPEWRITING CLASSES. 1. You must not remain silent in the typewriting room for more than two seconds at a time or you will be immediately ejected therefrom. 2. Do not decide to get out a perfect copy when the warning bell rings and then abuse others ears with your flavorous language. 3. If the Ford you’re using balks and the gasolene refuses to go through the carburetor freely, just turn it upside down and step out in the hall, get the fire extinguisher and give it a bath. It probably has not had one since it was made. 4. Never hand in a copy which has less than 27% errors on it or it will not be accepted. 5. Please do not place letters on the page straight as a crooked man cannot read them. 6. If you are sent from the room more than three times each day you will receive 20 per cent, extra credit. 7. Never use shields on typewriters as it is hard on the eyes. 8. The wastepaper basket is not put in the corner to put the paper in, but so that paper will not be scattered all over the floor. Just throw at it. 9. The wastepaper basket has St. Vitus’ dance, so don’t try to hit it; it is nervous enough now without making it any more so. 10. Girls, if the ribbon on your machine is not red, use your hair ribbon. 11. Be sure your chair is not on the verge of collapse before sitting down. 12. If the machine you’re using falls off the table just kick It out of sight; no one will ever miss it. 13. Don’t cover up your machine, leave it Underwood. 14. Don’t say shoot, say Remington. 15. Don’t bother your teacher about trifles, tell Oliver about it. 16. If your mother is out of baking powder take her your Royal. 17. If you don’t like these rules make some worse. HE COULD TRUST HER. “Rufus, you old loafer! Do you think it’s right to leave your wife at the wash-tub while you pass your time fishing?” “Yassuh, jedge, 's all right. Mah wife don’ need watchin.’ She’ll sho-ly wuk jes’ as hard es ef ah wuz dar.” Heard in German 12A—Minnie Rubenstein: “He picked up his head.”