Emmerich Manual High School - Ivian Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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THE RACE OF LIFE There comes a time to everyone, Who in the race of life doth run — And run to win — When he must make an extra stride To leap some yawning chasm wide, Where failure lurks within. And if he falter on the edge. Temptations closer ' round him hedge, To hold him back. They cry the dangers of the leap ; Point out the chasm, dark and deep- The rough, untrodden track. They point the extra labor hard And his ambition soon retard By their abuse ; They show him paths of so-called ease Wherein he may each fancy please As idle whim shall choose. Tis thus they trap him in their snares. And sow, within his soul, the tares Of their impurity. Tis thus they lead him, chained and bound, Until the circle swings full ' round ; And then — obscurity. Now friend, when in this race of life The moment comes for sudden strife To reach the goal, With firm determination true. Your courage and your strength renew. Your chosen path to hold. Harry Hunt, 1901.

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A BIT OF OLD NEW YORK

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NEVER TROUBLE TROUBLE ELL, try the door, anyway, said I im- patiently, as Tom searched through all his pockets for the key. ' • Nonsense, he returned. •• Imagine mother, of all women, leaving the door unlocked! As he spoke, he jerked at the knob and the door flew open. 1 smiled maliciously. Who on earth left that door open, he thundered. Sneak-thieves, tramps, any- body could come right in. Of all the care- less things! — the people in this house ought to have a keeper. And he stared indignantly into the black hall way. Never mind, Tom, 1 said soothingly. Light the gas. No, he said suddenly; it ' s too pretty a night to go in so soon. I ' m going to smoke. You can go in if you want to. From which last remark, you might correctly draw the inference that Tom was a near relative of mine. Do you think for one moment that I ' m going to venture in that dark, gloomy old house ? No, sir, and I seated myself near him on the porch steps. We said nothing for a few moments, but looked out over the smooth grass, between the tall, thick-leaved trees, to where the river swept darkly along, with occasional quivering bars of molten silver mocking the silver moon. A small rose from the piazza vines nodded gently at me, as though it held a friendly elfin sprite. O, Tom ! I said enthusiastically Isn ' t this a lovely night ! And these blooming vines are so beautiful ! Blooming, beautiful, and buggy, replied Tom, unmoved, as he fished out a small black ant which was exploring his neck. My sentiment was entirely squelched. What time is it, Tom ? I enquired meekly. Eleven thirty. he replied, striking a match. Auntie ought to be home pretty soon, I ventured. Tom nodded assent. Even if she stayed for the end of the play. I looked down the street, but only an irregular polka-dot pattern of yellow lamp light against the blackness of night met my eye. For some moments we sat there, chatting off and on. while in the silent intervals, Tom amused himself by blowing smoke into my face. The clock struck twelve. 1 wondered at Auntie ' s lateness, and Tom said : Maybe they had had an accident driving over the curbstone. I did that, once. But I didn ' t mean to. I kept an indignant silence for some minutes. But after while, Tom began to