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

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THE EASTE 12 RNER Horses By Mary ORIE All my life I had wanted to ride horseback. There were several reasons for this desire. The society debutantes in the Sunday supple- ment look so aristocratic; riding habits do make one appear so chic; last and by far most important, how can a handsome hero rescue one from the back of a runaway horse if one never rides? Knowing these various advan- tages of the equestrian art, I determined to make the most of my opportunities at camp. Each morning at breakfast the names of those who were to ride that day were read. Finally my turn came. At the appointed time another camper and I met our one instructor with three horses. “Now you take Brownie. Follow me. We shall go to the Oval,” she said to me. I had heard much of him. He was a single-footer. However, I could count four feet—something queer. I gingerly gripped the reins and got as far away from him as possible. For some unknown reason, he seemed to develop a great fondness for my tie. He continued to eye it appreciatively and advanced toward it smilingly. Not wishing to offend him openly, I diverted his attention by throwing a stone in the bushes, meanwhile sur- teptitiously tucking my tie out of sight. At last we reached the Oval. “You will have to go on the other side to mount,” I was in- Brownie! y but suddenly, Hy, Ker, 27 : as, which would be formed. The sie Aa or in the rear of worse, to 80 eats he had no eyes in the dear Brownie! d, I decided on that as the bet- back of his veal his heels looked diabolical, ter route, altho ee papiiecelaier) (Taye eee ddle. Grippi . fry, 1 gained the saddle. Gripping With hel 4 both hands, I surveyed the sur- his mane Ger thoughtfully. The ground, see looked unnecessarily devoid of noticed sadly. ; the fray began, I am at loss to explain, without receiving the least notice, heaval beneath me. Blackie, d impolite beast, seemed to have taken the greatest ees to my steed, Brownie. Moreover, it didn’t interest him in the least to know that I was rocking desper- Brownie’s back. In fact, he seemed Ki and coldly to ignore me altogether, ee They kicked! : They kicked! They bit! I gave a last despairing cry, but to no avail. I was slipping. I had slipped. I reposed upon the hard ground beneath their raging hoofs. I gave up all hope and surren- dered to the inevitable. Help, however, ar- rived. I was rescued, but, instead of from on a horse, from under a horse. Was this the ro- mance of which I dreamed? What a ridicu- lous picture I should have made for a Sunday paper! As for looking chic—I can laugh now. My right leg had been kicked; my arms were scratched and bruised. But, worst of all, the skin had been scraped from the bridge of my nose! “Are you killed?” they inquired solicitously. I arose and replied: “I never felt better in my life. On with the fight!” The next time I rode, I chose a large, kind- looking animal named Whitie. He had such nice, understanding eyes. Alas, he understood too well! My timidity must have showed in the way I lovingly touched his brow, for no (Continued on page 32) grass, I How I felt a general up a most malicious an' ately on

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THE EASTERNER 11 “Do you remember, Denis,” exclaimed a sol- dier, also about seventeen, “do you remember the day that the Emperor passed through Cha- tillon? The bands played martial airs, and Na- poleon at the head of a small force went through the very street on which we lived. The military fervor, the love of glory, and the patriotic spirit carried us away, and with the recklessness of youth we enlisted against our parents’ advice. How it will live in my memory! Together we called on Charlotte. She seemed so beautiful that last day. It was with tears in our eyes that you and I joined our company. And before marching off our mothers embarrassed us so by asking Captain Vendrone to look out for us in the war. Then came the most glorious moment of all; when we marched away singing.” Here the soldier, whose name was Jules, com- menced singing in a rich baritone, in which he was soon joined by Denis: “Glowing with love, on fire for fame, A troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady’s window came, And thus he sang his last good morrow :— ‘My life it is my country’s right— My heart is in my true love’s bow’r; Gayly for love and fame to fight, Befits the gallant troubadour.’ ” Gradually the little company dispersed until Denis and Jules were alone. There was a pause; Denis spoke: “Tonight is my last night with you, my friend.” “Forget it, comrade. Don’t allow yourself to think of such a thing.” “Ah yes, but I feel it, and Francois told us that a soldier instinctively knows when his hour approaches.” “Denis, you can’t mean this. Think of Char- lotte and your mother and father.” “But Charlotte does not care for me, Jules. You're the only one she loves. It will be for you to make her happy.” Denis was thought- ful, then added, “Francois said that soldiers leave remembrances for their wives or sweet- hearts. Truly I worship Charlotte, but I shall do nothing to keep myself alive in her memory. However, you may take this little token of af- fection to my dear parents who will sorely miss me. Do this for me, Jules.” So saying, Denis handed his friend a ring which Jules sadly placed in his pocket. A restless night passed, in which the two boys dreamt of the days when as children they had played together in the streets of Chatillon, and how they had both courted the charming Char- lotte. On the morning of December 2, bugles blew, orders were shouted, men hustled ; some cheered, some prayed, and some were lost in a daze at the frantic confusion about them. Sev- eral shots were fired and the French officers yelled themselves hoarse in forming the battle line. The Corps of Marshal Soult was drawn up behind a ridge and some buildings, so as to be concealed from the Russians. “The Russians are giving Davoust hell on the right,” someone shouted. It could be seen that great masses of the enemy were leaving the heights of Pratzen just opposite the French position, and were hurry- ing to the French right. “Why doesn’t the Emperor help Davoust?” cried Jules to the Sergeant. “It’s a crime to see all those Russians charging a single isolated French corps with us here idle.” “The Emperor knows better what to do than you, young man,” replied the old trooper, nod- ding his head gravely. “T heard that we’re going to charge,” said Denis. The assault eschelon under Soult and Berna- dotte was now advancing from concealment into the valley and thence to the heights of Pratzen. Shots whistled in ever-increasing numbers as the two corps advanced. “Mon Dieu! We are entering a trap,” shrieked Jules. “Keep your head, you young fool,” snapped the Sergeant. “You'll unnerve the whole corps.” “We're in it now, Jules,” said Denis. The advance kept steadily onward and was now past the valley and ascending the slope on the summit of which barked a line of Russian rifles. Nearer and nearer came the French. (Continued on page 33)

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THE EASTERNER 13 Blackmail (A Story Concerning the Mixing of Love and Business.) By Donatp A. Crate, Jx., 29 “Blackmail; (1) the extortion of money by threats of exposure or unfavorable comment in the press.” (New Century Dictionary.) Bob Deane was a cub reporter on the Times- Herald. The salary of a cub reporter on the Times-Herald would have satisfied the needs of any normal young man, providing, of course, he did not fall in love. Bob had vio- lated that provision, however, and was feeling the effects very severely. To make matters worse, he had chosen as the object of his af- fections a blond stenographer. Naturally, as it was nearing Christmas, he had gallantly asked her what she most desired from old St. Nicholas. The adored one, just as naturally, replied that she “was just crazy about a cer- tain bee-oo-tiful wrist watch they had seen on F street—in the window of Berry-Whitmores, wasn’t it?” Upon inquiry it was learned that said watch could be had for the trifling sum of $68.35. With such an introduction the reader will readily understand why we find the rather sad and hopeless expression on our hero’s face as he sat at his desk on the morning of December 24. Scattered across his desk were numerous sheets of copy paper, some covered with fig- ures ; some, with only a mark or two, had been crumpled as if the writer had thrown them aside in disgust (which was, in this case, more truth than poetry). While seated thus he was summoned to the office of the Magazine Editor. “Bob,” began the editor, “here’s a chance for a good Sunday story. If I get the story by tomorrow night, it’ll mean $35 to you. By the way, mail these letters as you go out, will you?” Mechanically Bob walked out of the office, took his hat from the rack, and went out to mail the letters. The box had clanked a sec- ond time before he fully realized what had hap- pened—that he, a cub reporter, had been as- signed a Sunday story; that he, Bob Deane, was getting $35 clear and above his salary. “Well, I’ll be d—d!” he exclaimed, much to the surprise and disgust of two old ladies who were mailing postal cards, “there must be a Santa Claus after all!’ The library of Mr. Willard McCormick’s town house at Sixteenth and Allegheny Ave- nue forms the natural background for the next scene of our narrative, since it is about this gentleman that the aforementioned Sun- day story revolved. Therefore we turn the reader’s attention to this room before the ar- rival of the hero. A rather heated argument was taking place. The principals were Messrs. Willard McCor- mick, Junior and Senior, owners of the Mc- Cormick Sock Mills. “This thing must be kept secret, I tell you!” the younger man was exclaiming, amid much waving of arms and other gyrations with which he felt it necessary to impress his adversary. “T am manager of this firm, am I not?” “Very true, very true, I may have retired. But that is no reason why I should stand by and see the business run into the ground!” re- turned the elder. “And let me tell you, if you persist in this foolishness, I’ll tell the first re- porter I see about this whole affair.” (Continued on page 34)