Eastern High School - Punch and Judy Yearbook (Washington, DC)

Page 8 text:

THE EASTERNER Published by the Pupils of Eastern High School, Washington, D. C. Volume XXII JANUARY, 1919 Number 2 Heroes Everyone Katuertne McCautey, 12a. The boys were back! Down the avenue they swung, bronzed, straight, strong, veritable young gods in their worn khaki uniforms and sporty oversea’s caps. How our hearts thrilled as we watched them; how, in spite of all our efforts, a lump persisted in coming up into our throats to choke us, as we watched with tear- dimmed eyes the moving columns! They were our boys, our own brothers, friends, friends’ brothers who were marching before us. They were our boys who had left their homes, their work, all their interests to go across the sea and fight for us. They were our own boys, who had stood at the Marne, at Chateau Thierry, at Belleau Wood, and stubbornly held their lines until the Huns fled, terrified in the face of a courage, the like of which was alien to their brutal hearts, And now these same boys who had won the admiration and deep thankfulness of nations were returning to us. We had known that they would not, of course, fail or disappoint us; but now, mixed with our pride in them was a disturbing feeling of our own worthlessness and the fear that we were not deserving of them. Who were we that we should take their sacrifices? Who were we that we should take the life’s blood of those comrades whom they had left behind under the little crosses? Who were we that we should take a leg, an arm, and leave a boy in his first flush of youth, to face life, a cripple? Oh! we should not, could not do it! We were not, are not, and shall never be worthy of the trials, the hardships, the pain, which they have stood and borne for us. But we can try. And now we has- tily brush aside our tears and cheer with all our hearts the returning heroes. There’s Dan, dear fellow; how well he looks! And there’s Bob and Charley, and Bill! Oh! Oh! Why does the policeman insist on our staying on this side of the rope? Why can't we go out there with them? Suddenly the ropes are broken, and excited mothers, fathers, sisters and sweethearts rush out and into the arms of the smiling boys. The Street becomes the happy scene of a moving human drama. Soon the sidewalks are deserted except for those unforunate few who have no lad in khaki, and who can do nothing but enviously lodk on at the glee of the rest. But no, what is that? A soldier in a wheel chair! Both of his legs are gone, and a hopeless look is on his boyish face. He is one of the convalescents from the city’s military hospital and has been wheeled out to see the return of the boys. As the flag goes sailing by, he raises his hand to quick salute, while a brighter look comes to his sad eyes. But with the passing of the colors, the haunting, pained expression returns. It is a face which draws attention by its very despair. So Margaret thought, as she turned away from the scene before her to face again the soldier in the wheel chair, Margaret had no one in the army. She was an orphan, who had come to see the happiness of those blessed with service stars. But now, conscious only of the look of the soldier, who could never march again, and filled with an engulfing pity, she cried out to him, distressfully : “Oh! don’t, please, please don’t look like that. Are you sorry you have given your legs away?” Now, perhaps this was an awful thing to say. It was not at all what she intended to say, but it seemed to have expressed itself. And now fearfully she awaited the result of her outburst. The boy in the wheel chair didn’t smile, or even look interested. In fact, an expression of bored protest seemed to flit over his face for an instant. Then summoning his polite- ness and looking calmly at the girl, he answered, “I did not leave my legs in France. If I had I would be happy.” In answer to Margaret’s questioning look, he went on, “I am an aviator, and the machine which F was piloting was wrecked, and this is the result .” He pointed to his stumps. “Oh! tell me about it,” breathed the girl. But Allan, for that was his name, shook his head. “Not now,” he answered ; “perhaps later.” “At the hall, then,” asked Margaret; “for of course you are going there.” “Yes, if you'll take me, for my man who wheeled me here is out there welcoming home his brother.” “T'll be glad to wheel you down there,” answered Margaret. So that was how it happened that a half hour later, she found herself seated at a long table beside her wounded soldier, in the big hall, filled with tables and good things which had been prepared as a welcome home for the boys. All around her were

Page 7 text:

THE EASTERNER EASTERN AIGH SCHOOL, WASHINGTON, D. C. MOTTO: DO WELL, DO BETTER, DO BEST Published five times a year by the Students of the Eastern High School, Washington, D. C. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, 75 PER YEAR; BY MAIL, 85 CENTS Single Copies, 20 Cents, Payable in Advance ALL BUSINESS COMMUNICATIONS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO THE BUSINESS MANAGER Entered as Second Class Matter in the Post Office at Washington, D. ©., under Act of March 4, 1879 a) Volume XxXIf Washington. D. C., January. 1919 Number 2 Qe ee eneeeeeeee meee pene etme teenmenent eeentneenenentntnetn a-e-enen-eo() TABLE OF CONTENTS Porm, “THEIR DvE’” Dorothy D. Rohrer... ..« “HRRoES EvERYONE ’ , Katherine McCauley. “Tye REVOLT’. -Helen Weigel... EASTERN IN THE GREAT EpITorIALs. Scare Heap. EXCHANGES. ScHoot News ATHLETICS,... RiFLe Notes. Capet Notes. A MINER Pace. EDITORIAL STAFF Editor-in-Chief, KATHERINE McCaAuLey Assistant Editor, E.tis HAwortH Literary Editor, Dorothy ROHRER Assistant Literary Editors, Humpurey Watsu, Heren Biack, GRACE WELCH War News, Ftorence BoteLer Military Notes, SeyMour Ross Athletics, ALAN DAwson School News, CHar.otte BAYLy Locals, Georck Havenner, Lester Encet Art, CHartes P. Warts, DorotHy WILLIAMS Scare Head, CHARLES LANHAM, ALAN DAwson Exchange, MiLprep Connicu Alumni, Hester BoTeLer Camp Fire, Evizaseta DuvaLt School Gossip, ELEANOR Eckuarpt Rifle Notes, ARTHUR LorD BUSINESS STAFF Manager, NATHANIEL BREWER Advertising Manager, Ropert Burns Assistants, Robert BENNER, CLARENCE PARKER Typists, Myrtie Coox, Atice Ketty, Rrxgy TaNnceLt, Joon Kane Printed by Pupils in the Central High School Print Shop.

Page 9 text:

THE EASTERNER Published by the Pupils of Eastern High School, Washington, D. C. Volume XXII JANUARY, 1919 Number 2 Heroes Everyone Katnertne McCautey, 12a. The boys were back! Down the avenue they swung, bronzed, straight, strong, veritable young gods in their worn khaki uniforms and sporty oversea’s caps. How our hearts thrilled as we watched them; how, in spite of all our efforts, a lump persisted in coming up into our throats to choke us, as we watched with tear- dimmed eyes the moving columns! They were our boys, our own brothers, friends, friends’ brothers who were marching before us. They were our boys who had left their homes, their work, all their interests to go across the sea and fight for us. They were our own boys, who had stood at the Marne, at Chateau Thierry, at Belleau Wood, and stubbornly held their lines until the Huns fled, terrified in the face of a courage, the like of which was alien to their brutal hearts. And now these same boys who had won the admiration and deep thankfulness of nations were returning to us. We had known that they would not, of course, fail or disappoint us; but now, mixed with our pride in them was a disturbing feeling of our own worthlessness and the fear that we were not deserving of them. Who were we that we should take their sacrifices? Who were we that we should take the life’s blood of those comrades whom they had left behind under the little crosses? Who were we that we should take a leg, an arm, and leave a boy in his first flush of youth, to face life, a cripple? Oh! we should not, could not do it! We were not, are not, and shall never be worthy of the trials, the hardships, the pain, which they have stood and borne for us. But we can try. And now we has- tily brush aside our tears and cheer with all our hearts the returning heroes. There’s Dan, dear fellow; how well he looks! And there’s Bob and Charley, and Bill! Oh! Oh! Why does the policeman insist on our staying on this side of the rope? Why can’t we go out there with them? Suddenly the ropes are broken, and excited mothers, fathers, sisters and sweethearts rush out and into the arms of the smiling boys. The street becomes the happy scene of a moving human drama. Soon the sidewalks are deserted except for those unforunate few who have no lad in khaki, and who can do nothing but enviously lodk on at the glee of the rest. But no, what is that? A soldier in a wheel chair! Both of his legs are gone, and a hopeless look is on his boyish face. He is one of the convalescents from the city’s military hospital and has been wheeled out to see the return of the boys. As the flag goes sailing by, he raises his hand to quick salute, while a brighter look comes to his sad eyes. But with the passing of the colors, the haunting, pained expression returns. It is a face which draws attention by its very despair. So Margaret thought, as she turned away from the scene before her to face again the soldier in the wheel chair, Margaret had no one in the army. She was an orphan, who had come to see the happiness of those blessed with service stars. But now, conscious only of the look of the soldier, who could never march again, and filled with an engulfing pity, she cried out to him, distressfully : “Oh! don’t, please, please don’t look like that. Are you sorry you have given your legs away?” Now, perhaps this was an awful thing to say. It was not at all what she intended to say, but it seemed to have expressed itself. And now fearfully she awaited the result of her outburst. The boy in the wheel chair didn’t smile, or even look interested. In fact, an expression of bored protest seemed to flit over his face for an instant. Then summoning his polite- ness and looking calmly at the girl, he answered, “I did not leave my legs in France. If I had I would be happy.” In answer to Margaret’s questioning look, he went on, “I am an aviator, and the machine which F was piloting was wrecked, and this is the result.” He pointed to his stumps. “Oh! tell me about it,” breathed the girl. But Allan, for that was his name, shook his head. “Not now,” he answered ; “perhaps later.” “At the hall, then,” asked Margaret ; “for of course you are going there.” “Yes, if you'll take me, for my man who wheeled me here is out there welcoming home his brother.” “T'll be glad to wheel you down there,” answered Margaret. So that was how it happened that a half hour later, she found herself seated at a long table beside her wounded soldier, in the big hall, filled with tables and good things which had been prepared as a welcome home for the boys. All around her were