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Page 38 text:
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them with those who are near and
dear to him. That would be in a
farther future, a quieter time among
familiar things, when grass will
spring from the earth as if it' came
from some boundless source. He will
wait for it, knowing, it will be his, for
as he had known the face of America,
he knows now her heart and her
Suddenly hewas brought back to
reality and he smiled to himself as
the ripples on the beach seemed to
echo-"My Old Kentucky Home-
A HEAVY curtain of smoke arose
as the fog of early morning lay
like a blanket over the bloody battle-
field, where watchful men were try-
ing to penetrate the soupy atmos-
phere about them. No sound was
heard except the distant thunder of
anti-aircraft at the front and the
closer groans and cries of -the woun-
ded. In the trenches and behind the
lines, medical men were moving with
quick efficiency as the stretcher
bearers carried in the slightly wound-
ed cases which could be patched up
under fire. The more seriously
wounded were carried back to the
hospital, if possible, or treated as
best they could be under the present
conditions. As the smoke slowly as-
cended, the firing began and soon
the noise of machine gun and rifle
took the place of the death-like quiet-
Like the bouncing up of a jack-in-
the-box when the lid is raised, a huge
red setter leaped from a distant shell
crater and made his way quickly but
carefully across the field in the 'di-
rection of the front trench. On his
back was strapped, a small leather
case containing a message for the
lieutenant in the trench. The dog,
sensing that his appearance was a
goodtarget for snipers, ran as close
to the ground as possible. At inter-
vals, if the shooting became extreme-
ly difficult to dodge, and if he were
near a foxhole, he would drop into
it until the shooting slackened and
he was able to proceed amid slighter
disturbances. Within a few feet of
the trench the force ofan exploding
hand grenade near-by, knocked him
down andlcovered him with the dirt
that had been torn from the earth
with the explosion. He lay for a min-
ute beneath the debris, not hurt, but
only stunnedg then with a final burst
of strength he ran for the comfort-
ing shelter of the trench, which he
He was exhausted, and as the mes-
sage was removed from its case and
an answer written, he lay on the
hard dirt floor of the trench with
his chin on his paws, and let his
mind wander back to his home.
He had come to the family as a
tiny, silky red pup with long ears
and big paws. They called him
"Casey,," not for the famous Casey
Jones, but because that name seemed
suited to him. He was, you know, an
Irish setter, though at first everyone
doubted it. But as he grew older, he
became slim and graceful and indeed
lived up to his name. His face, long
and well shaped, had a proud, arro-
gant, rather superior look and his
eyes were alert and watchful. His
ears never dropped, even in scolding,
but held themselves erect defiantly.
His hair was silky and thick and of
a rusty reddish color. His tail, long
and forever wagging, resembled the
plume of a fashionable lady's hat.
Casey was loved by-the family and
all who knew him, yet he was feared
and respected by the dogs and cats
of the neighborhood. For it was his
joy to fight with the dogs or 1'un the
cats up a tree. But if he were scratch-
ed or hurt in some way, he allowed
no one to doctor him. He was his
own physician and healer. Above ev-
erything else, Casey loved hunting.
Just the removal of the shot gun or
twenty-two rifle from the closet
would send him into hysterical bark-
ing, and if the words, "How about
it, Casey, let's go hunting . . . ?"
were spoken, his joy was limitless. He
could roam through the woods for
hours, never tiring, treeing squirrels
or chipmunks and chasing rabbits or
even cows, if he could find nothing
betterq Finally arriving home again,
wearily but triumphantly, Casey al-
Hazel Muller, Post Graduate
Build you castles in the air,
Plant your thoughts with flowers fair,
Pave your roads -with sbining truth,
Start your life in dreaming youth.
ways carried' in his mouth one ofthe-
prizes, which he proudly lay before
Then one calm Sunday evening
the peaceful life came to an 'abrupt
end. The United States was at war
with Japan. The men and boys every-
where were joining some branch of
the service. Two from Casey's family
went, one never to return-and then
they decided to let Casey go, too.
The next six months were the most
difficult in Casey's life. He was
taught, not to be loving 'and gentle,
as he had been at home, but to be
suspicious of everyone. He was
taught to run under heavy fire, to
jump over deep ditches and high
walls. For the first time in his life
Casey also learned what it was to be
hungry and thirsty. But he survived
the rigid tests and landed smack in
the middle of trouble, spelled
His train of thoughts were inter-
rupted with the placing of the mes-
sage in its case on his back. Once
more he began his slow progress back
over the field. His former thoughts
of home were far away and he con--
centrated only on getting back to
his shell hole. But halfway over,
lady luck deserted him and a bullet
hit him in the chest. And, amid in-
tense pain, he seemed to gain a
strange new strength and reached the
safety of his original shell crater.
After removing the message, the men
tried to ease his pain, but he would
have no part of that. I-Ie looked at
them solemnly, then with a sort of
apologetic look on his intelligent face,
closed his eyes never to reopen them
again. Of the men standing around,
more than one had a tear in. his eye
and a lump in his throat for their
faithful friend who had given his life
to successfully carry a message.
In a small plot, beneath a tiny
mound near the hospital, lies the
body of the courageous setter, and
over the grave on a wooden .slab
these words appear:
"He's dead. Ohl' Lay 'him gently in
the ground ,
And may his tombgbe by this verse
Here Casey, the pride of all his kind,
is laid 4
Who fauned like man, but ne'er like
man betrayed." .
Betty Burch, ,'45.
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Page 37 text:
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D , S ld' D 'times since the mail came,
HI- OCS A O 1Cf I' C3111 . eyening, that he ,didn't have. to'
the writing to know exactly W'hat'iiliQiffi1.29 ,.
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said. He knew it d1dn't say all .off -A-1535.25
, By Shirley Siegel evening after supper. Yes, Dad was the things She wanted it to SaYS'hQ5'?'-diff:
- getting old nowg his hair was turning knew hvw . to 1-'Gad things' iUl?0 it!
THE moon seemed to stand still. Its gray and the twinkle in his me,-ry though, and he knew that shemeant I 'f1'Q7i,e
soft light spread over the inces- blue eyes was growing dim, but he them to be them' They had 'always ' N -'NFL
sant Pacific. the pale beach, and up
across the full brown tents. In the
soft, unreal night. the pyramidals
looked like aboundant shocks of corn.
Rv the wire near the beach, a rangy
soldier lay on his back. his banjo
on his stomach awkwardly strumininor
on the strings. He pecked out sin'I'e
notes and sent them whining into the
night. He could hear the men in
the tents checking and recheckiwr
their efiuinment. He wanted to write
a letter home. but knew he couldn't
nut the things he felt on paper. There
was no wav of describing the uncer-
taintv' and loneliness. They were
shipping out in the mornineq, and no
on.e knew where they were going or
what they would find there. It was
a winter's moon on a tropical hear-la.
naradoxically warm to them, enticing.
yet its unfamiliar light was disturb-
ing. He was playing "My Old Ken-
tucky Home" and the bitter notes
that came from the banjo were like
a young Negro whose memory holds
tragedies he has inherited but never
known-"For my old Kentucky home
+far away." . '
Andnthere he lay, strumming his
banjo, and dreaming of home. The
little house on'a curving street facing
the hills was a beautiful sight all
year around, but in the winter, when
the fir trees wear white collars and
the shadow of the fence is purple
on the drift, when the birds take
tiny stitches in the snow and our
'footprints hurry toward the house as
dusk draws nigh, there is an enchant-
ing, and unforgettable warmth of
home. The warmth of home, its
fragance, coming from the outside-
from the winter air-the waiting look
the rooms have-the dining room
where the little blue cupboards with
pretty things are in the corners! The
was still the best companion, the
truest friend, the only--Dad. And
then, there was Mom at the station
kissing him good-byg trying hard to
keep from crying, but as he boarded
the train, he could see tears in her
eyes, shining like drops of rain in
the sun. The train pulled out and
from the back platform he saw her
tiny handkerchief dab at her eyes as
she strained forward lest she miss the
last glimpse of the train. And those
goodies! Everyone enjoyed them so.
Gee, Mom surely is a good cook! She
knows just what a fellow likes. She
was always working so hard to please
everybody, but you didn't think about
that 'until you were away from home
and you couldn't ask for your favor-
ite pie and, presto, at supper time
there it is before you. You just
don't appreciate anything until
you've lost it. .
But it isn't gone forever. Some day
he'll be back home in that old corn-
er room with the school pennants
that Mom has kept so neat and ready.
Heid been eating K rations for so long
that he no longer thou-ght of fried
chicken, salads' or cake, except at
the peak of a growing description of
things longed for. He thoughtnof
fried eggs and crisp strips of bacon
sizzling in -. hot grease, the aroma
penetrating the thickest walls to drift
under one's nose and arouse him
from his quietest slumber. He could
remember the way the green linole-
um was worn by the sink, he could
-hear the radio playing and see 'the
evening paper droppedf under the
light at the end of the blue divan.
These are some of the little things
he looks forward to. For it's the little
things-the small familiar pleasures
-that to him, as to all of us, add up
to home. ' i -
understood each other ever since
they had been very young. Then he
was caught in a 'whirlpool of imagi-
nation that sent him spinning back
to dreamland. She was a quiet kid
with a small face and her eyes were
soft, sort of like a kitten's. He
never thought anybody could- ever
feel the' way he did about some
things. And here was another per-
son, even if it was a girl. They had
grown up together-loving and un-
derstanding. Once in a while they'd
go to the movies 'with the gang, but
lots of times, they'd just stay home
and play checkers or go over the old
Latin. They had planned everything
just as it should be' and when he
gets back, there'll be newer, finer
ways of enjoying the land he fought
for. Maybe he will have his post-
war meals in pink and purple pills:
maybe he'll swoosh to work in a rock-
et car-maybe so! But there are ,a
few things that eleven million G. Ig
Joes want to find just as they left
them-just as they've dreamed about
them through all these long months.
Such as the unchanging love of the
girl who waited and the corner room,
and the old fireplace and America.
He knows what America means
now. He had known her rivers be-
fore, her towns and her slow climbing
mountains. He had learned the places
where Ehe could go and Where he
could not go, but after serving her,
he knew there was no place that was
not his, no part of America that was
not his. 'A little courage had earned
him that right, because rights arexnot
granted. No group of men can grant
other men rights of any kindg they
are achieved and acknowledged. He
had achieved .them because he recog-
nized them in himself. There is
nothing at home he' wanted that he
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living room with its huge fireplace An 'alert sounded, and ' he had not had here. There was no iff is
where he had popped corn and roast- scrambled to his feet, clutching his charity of mind, no freedom oft +
ed apples .as a kid. And there, banjo in his hands, but the planes thought,!no denial ofworship, no, 'V ,QE
sprawled out, in front of the fire- were friendly -and seconds later the hungeixunwillingly shared: there wasp, A'A.
place is the deerskin he got on that all clear blew. Kickingaside the co- no one who was abject in the faceof if
last hunting trip with .Dad. ,Good coanuts and dead frondis, leaning duty. These things he knew,he.liad xg
old Dad, he remembers him best, sit- against the gray, broken trunk of a gained, deeply and unendinglygas' ify..j .
,ting before the fireplace smoking his tree, he pulledxa rumpled letter from they had beenirevealed iii the ,blq9,d'-j- 4 j
pipe Sand reading the -paper in the his pocket. He had read it so many of his veins. someday he will
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Theres No Place Like Home
WHEN Life becomes too difficult,
when the cares of the world
are piled high upon my shoulders,
when everything is apparently set
against me, this is the time that I
think of home. These are dangerous
thoughtsg for I'm afraid that quiet
sanctuary in my mind and the often-
times madhouse down on Lowerline
Street never seem to coincide. If the
reader will be so kind as to permit
me, I shall attempt to tell him what
I mean by this statement.
I arrive. "Home, home at last!"
I cry. ,
My mother looks up absently and,
sweetly pecking me on my cheek,
says cheerily, "I'm so glad you're
home, baby fughljg I want you to
go to the grocery store."
Now there are many combinations
of words in the English language,
but none of them hold so dread a
memory as the above.
I try to think of something cut-
ting to say, so, after thinking furi-
ously for a while, I pour forth with,
Nob !!l '
I take my coat back out of the
closet, comb my'hair, and then ap-
proach Mother to see if I can find
out exactly what she wants me to
get at the store.
"Oh," she says, "just get me some
bread, onions, potatoes, and, . . . er
.V . . just look around and get me
anything you want."
That command just thrills me pur-
ple, because I know that if I don't
get exactly what she wants, I trot
back to the store.
-Q Well, I go out the door, feeling
as if someone had just used my only
shoe coupon, -and start darkly down
the street. Now I should give an
account of my experiences at the
store, but they are too boring for
my inadequate pencil to describe.
The general idea, however, is that I
return home laden with a bunch of
nothing, walk into the house, deposit
my loot on the kitchen table, and
try to get into my room without any-
one's noticing that I have returned.
However, I do not succeed, and
Mother spies me.
'After setting the table, making
some cream sauce and generally
making myself useful, I pick up the
evening paper and eagerly scan the
pages to find "Little Abner." As I
settle back to enjoy it, thoughts fill
my mind of the cheerful atmosphere
and peace of one's own home. "Ah,
there's nothing like it."
But, wait. What's that? It can't
be true, it mustn't be, oh-o-0-o, it is
-MY SISTER. She comes in and
glares at meg I glare back.
A "My blouse," she says.
."My necklace," I retort.
We finally agree on armed neu-
trality and she leaves the room. I
return to my paper and find my
place-you guessed it-my Daddy
comes home. This means dinner and
I still haven't read the paper. How-
ever, I'm not complaining, because
my mother is just about the best
cook in the world las whose Mother
isn't?J. To get back to the subject,
however, we sit down and eat, and
talk, and gave a good time. Ah, I
just love my family. After we fin-
ish, Mother excuses herself. We
talk a little longerg then Daddy ex-
cuses himself. Gloria and I sit there
talking until the cold realization
comes to us that we're alone-with
the dishes. - We sit there a little
longer thinking that maybe they'll
go away, or wash themselves, or
maybe the house will burn down,
and we'll have to rush out leaving
the soiled dishes on the table. We
aren't very lucky, however, and the
hour of doom approaches. If Fib-
ber Magee comes on .at eight-thirty,
and it is only eight-ten then, and
it takes us fifteen minutes to do
the dishes, we figure that We have
five minutes to sit around and talk.
we sit around all right, but we can't
think of anything to say except, "I
wish we didn't have to do the
dishes"g to which remark the other
About eight-thirty, after Gloria
and I make the pleasant discovery
that doing the dishesAdidn't kill us,
we settle down comfortably to listen
to Fibber- Magee. Suddenly, the
door bell rings, and guess what?
Now to let the reader get a pic-
ture of the grim humor of this sit-
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uation, I must explain a few facts?
fact number, one-the Thompsons
are a one-radio familyg fact num-
ber two-the one and only is situ-
ated in the living room'g fact num-
ber three+-the company, amidst
chatter and laughter, decide to in-
dulge in a few rubbers of bridge.
Gloria and I look at each otherg
our faces are two feet long. We
drag ourselves into our room and
decide to read. I pick up the Mc-
Call's, and start looking through it,
when Gloria comes up and says,
"Why don't you let me read that one?
You have all the afternoon to read it
and I have only night." All after-
noon, indeed! AThat finishes it! I'm
going to bed.
That ends my little tale of a
peaceful, calm, tranquil, and a
string of other adjectives, day. All
I do then is to give my hair the cus-
tomary five strokes, get ready for
bed, and leap in.
Now, beloved reader, I have de-
scribed one type of day to you. If
you think you can stand it, I shall
make a futile attempt to tell you
of another type. In case you are
too discouraged, I shall try to re-
late it in as few words as possible.
I came home, full of fun, ready
for anything, energetic as a tank-
ful of gasoline, to find no one at
home. This type of afternoon is
usually spent in reading, lolling
around the house, and using the
telephone. This type, too, is entire-
Now, I should like to describe to
you that wonderful, beautiful, ex-
quisite day, that day of days, that
culmination of all that is ideal, the
day when everything goes right.
Ah! I should like to, but it is im-
possible. In the first place, I have
used up all my time, and in the sec-
ond place, I shouldn't known any
adequate words to describe it. The
only thing I can say about it is that
kind of day is what makes one real-
ize what home really means, what a
family really means, and what Life
would be without them. It makes
one realize that her home is her-
self, as much as it is anything else,
that it is Mother, Father, sister,
brother, cat, dog, everybody. As for
me, I think mine is one in a million:
I wouldn't trade it for the world.
Mary Anne Thompson, '45
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Looking for old family members and relatives? Do you want to find pictures of parents or grandparents when they were in school? Want to find out what hairstyle was popular in the 1920s? E-Yearbook.com has a wealth of genealogy information spanning over a century for many schools with full text search. Use our online Genealogy Resource to uncover history quickly!
Are you planning a reunion and need assistance? E-Yearbook.com can help you with scanning and providing access to yearbook images for promotional materials and activities. We can provide you with an electronic version of your yearbook that can assist you with reunion planning. E-Yearbook.com will also publish the yearbook images online for people to share and enjoy.
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