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

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THE BASTERNER : ORDERS Fern Parner, '24 Some of us were disgruntled; there was no doubt about that. We were offended on two scores. In the first place, a true sailor is always averse to land duty. Besides, we were stationed in the interior of Mexico, knowing little about our location and nothing of the length of our stay. But we were dead certain of one thing: we were in for some skirmishing. Then, too, our ranking officer had put me in charge of a machine gun battery, while he re- turned to a neighboring town for rest in a hotel. That was not likely to put us in the best of humor. We had to sleep on the ground. The blankets, which a few of us had been valorous enough to carry on our long inland march, did very little good, for the raw, uncomfortable dampness chilled us. The only order the fellow had left us was to shoot everything we saw. That sounded like action tome. And we surely saw action that night! What a night! ‘The air, together with everything we touched, was cold and clammy. It was dark—not merely dark, but black with that sort of fog that shows only shadows. A man three or four yards distant looked like a shadow of immense size .We were accustomed to fogs and to the dark, but we tvere un- familiar with the lay of the land. While we were slipping farther into the mire at every step we took, in an effort to find a resting place for the night, we thought with sinking hearts of our familiar ship tossing in the har- bor of a little sea town miles away. Finally, however, we found a rocky shelf on which the rest of the squad could sleep, while I watched. About midnight it grew even darker. I wouldn’t have let darkness frighten me, but you can imagine that dampness and blackness seemed spooky, when I reflected that a gang of Mexican bandits might surprise the little squad, and shoot us off before we could get a chance at them. That was, to say the least, an uncomfortable consideration. I must have gone into a sort of reverie for a few moments. Well, about one o’clock, I was startled by the cracking of a twig. I looked around for a while, but nothing appeared to excite my sus- here loomed a shadow of prodi- distance away from me. My duty was clear. I noiselessly aroused my men. We shot that fellow. Judging by the thud with whieh he fell, his size must have been enormous. Since it was but reasonable to suppose that there would be more bandits, we waited tensely for further developments, scarcely speaking above a whisper. As the moments went on, our vigilance relaxed. It was after two young hot-bloods had argued for some time as to whose shot had killed the bandit, that they were suddenly silenced by the ap- pearance of another form. Slowly it ap- proached, while we waited for it to get close enough for us to take sure aim through the fog. Instantaneously it seemed that our one enemy was followed by a host. The five of us estimated afterwards that there must have been at least three hundred huge shadows. Resolving to fight valiantly to the bitter end, my brave squad opened fire on the enemy. To our utter amazement, they did not return fire, but ran away, stumbling through a small stream a few hundred yards distant. We fol- lowed them down to the stream, still firing and eausing heavy losses on the enemy’s side, We had to stop at the stream, for it was too treacherous for unfamiliar feet to ford. Soon, satisfied that they had had enough of us for one night, I placed some one else on guard and went to rest, but not to sleep. I was immensely proud of our victory. I began to conjecture what the newspapers would say. I even imagined what the head- lines would be—for in my least sanguine mo- ments I could not imagine a report in which the headlines were not spread over the top of the front page. The headlines which most ap- pealed to me were: ‘‘Officer and Four Men Rout Mexican Army,’’ and another, ‘‘Five Hundred Mexicans Flee Without a Shot Be- fore Onslaught of Five Americans.’’ Both were to be followed by smaller headlines with my name. In looking back, I now marvel at my modesty in not putting my name at the picions, until t gious size a short

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THE EFASTERNER 9 A CLEAN PAGE I wrote an idle word in sea-wet sand, A word of chance, and fanciful no doubt; In thoughtful mood I took my other hand And stirred the sand to blot the writing out— A marréd beach was all that marked its place. I pondered long beside the rolling sea; I saw a gull and wave in foam-white race; Tempestuously, the wave bore down on me. The gull veered by; the wave was spent; it fell, And left a dazzling whiteness on the beach, And then retreated on the backward swell Chagrined because I stood beyond its reach. T sought the spot where I had left the mar— The beach was smooth as virgin beaches are. Carey Moore, ’24. TRUE BEAUTY The passion of life is for beauty, And to find it, men seek far and wide. I have sought and haye found that beauty Doth around us in nature abide. true In the pink of a rosebud just opened, Or the grass empearléd with dews; Then again in the sky’s changing colors, And the rainbow’s rare, radiant hues. In a beautiful deer fleeting homeward, Or a sail ’gainst the blue of the skies; In the sound of a brook gaily babbling— Lo, the beauty in these never dies! Mar O’Connor, ’24. If you’re used to giving knocks, Change your style; Throw bouquets instead of rocks For a while.—Selected. WITHOUT AND WITHIN The rain is falling dismally, The sky is overcast ; The roofs of sheds and houses gray Creak in the fateful blast. The branches of the gaunt, stark trees Sway with a mighty groan; The great wind rushes wildly on With eerie, breathless moan. But in a cheery room, I see Just across the way : A child is playing happily For all the dreary day. Fern Painter, 24 WHY DO CHERRIES GROW? Far above my head Soared a robin red. Chirped he while I asked, As he flew below, “Why do cherries grow ?”’ Perched he in a tree, Plucking merrily From a tiny heart. Then these words said he, “Cherries grow for me.’’ SamueL Martuews, 724. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul. —Henley.

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THE BASTERNER Ii top of the page. Another title occurred to me, ‘ Sensational Skirmish in Mexico,’’ which I at onee rejected because of its lack of descrip- tiveness. My thoughts then turned to my su- perior officer. What oblivion for him! hai glory for me! It seemed to me then that the authorities could do no less than make me ad- miral—or something. And later I thought how pleased my parents would be. I could picture them greeting me with open arms and shining, tearful eyes. I began to think of some protestations of modesty to make. My ruminations always returned at this point to the newspaper headlines. The hours flew like gulls. The men around me, too, were rapt in pleasant reverie. When we finally realized that dawn had come, we stepped cautiously from our shelter to recon- noiter, and, if possible, to bury some of the bodies of the poor devils we had ruthlessly slain the preceding night. To say that we were amazed at the sight that met our eyes would be putting it too mildly. It seemed that our senses had sud- denly taken flight—for, scattered around where we had hoped to gaze triumphantly upon our annihilated enemy, lay the bodies of twenty dead cows! Not one of us said a word. Indeed, for the next few moments, those poor, harmless, dead cows were not more quiet than we. The silence was at last broken by old Bill Perkins. ‘‘Well, well!’ he sighed. ‘If I wasn’t fooled! And just to think, we can’t even use the carcasses, because if we start a fire, more than cows will attack us, I’ll war- rant!”’ So the headlines did not feature the stir- ring incident, and I’m still chief petty officer; but our orders to shoot everything we saw were carried out toa t. That is all that could be expected of us. It was not our fault that our Mexican bandits turned out to be cows. THE CURSE OF TERPSICHORE I have no feet. Mistake me not, reader— nor imagine that I am totally destitute of that pair of lower extremities. Neither imagine that I am torn asunder from those essential members which enable me to ambu- late. I do have the control of feet for some purposes; therefore, when I say I have no feet, you will understand that I mean—for dancing. My feet (if I may call them such) are prolongations which should more rightly be called yards. I do all in my power to de- erease their extensiveness, but all my efforts are in vain. These offshoots of stout and stubby legs are inclined to grow more and more extensive. They are slowly exciting me to madness, and I am about resolved to shorten them by eutting the toes off. To say that my feet have never felt the touch of a dance floor is erroneous. But, to state the plain truth, my partner is myself. Once my expectations of happiness soared high. with the prospect of a fair dancing partner; but when she beheld my big, clumsy, pedal extremities (very moderate expression), my joyful anticipation came to naught. How I have practiced dancing! The ablest men of the profession have tutored me. I know the latest steps and remember ancient ones. Fate and my circus feet, however, are ever against me. If I could only change my ponderous, rectangular feet to the oppo- site, I would give all. It is hard to stand alone in an age like this—an age of dancing and merriment, youthful frolic and joys. I stand apart and watch while others dance for me. If I, like King Midas, had one wish which could be granted, it would be, ‘‘Give me feet that enable me to dance with eatlike tread and agility.’” Samve. Marruews, 24.