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

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get anxious himself, for Uncle is an old man with poor eyes, and he has a rather disastrous habit of driving into things. At half past twelve, we had decided on one of two possibilities ; either they had slipped around to somebody ' s house for supper, or else an accident had happened. The first was rather improbable, being far more in Tom ' s and my line than Aunt ' s and Uncle ' s. The second was so full of direful possibilities that I wanted to go out and hunt them. As we sat there in distressed silence, the clock struck one. Tom rose and paced the porch nervously. Just then I fancied I heard a voice, which said faintly, children ! Tom, stop ! I said, choking. Listen!- — I thought I heard Auntie ' s voice. Nonsense ! said Tom gruffly, but stopping all the same. Children, called the voice, clearly and distinctly, when are you coming upstairs ? And over the banister, with her queer old-fashioned candlestick lighting up her handsome face, leaned my Aunt. She and Uncle had reached home a half hour before Tom and 1. Valentia Egan, March 28, 1900. THE ARRIVAL HERE he comes. Here he is. Behold the man with the hoe. At last we see the poet of the century. These and similar cries broke the gloomy silence of Hades one morning not long since. Charon had just brought his craft to a standstill and was depositing his single passenger on the golden sands of the Styx. No wonder the shades were excited, for they were about to receive an accession. All had read in Addison ' s Sight-Seer the evening before that Edward Markham was deceased and now he was here. Thin and haggard in the face he was. He had a weary look in his eyes, as if bowed by the weight of centuries, he stood. Grasping his small grip in one hand he stepped on to the beach. Here, Charon, he said, go make yourself comfortable ' giving him a ghostly dollar. Then he turned toward the associated shades; then, and only then, did he seem to realize that he was dead. He had faced irate and uncompro- mising editors; he had received bushels of criticism, both bitter and sweet, and many a

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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

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spring poem had he rejected — but never before had he faced the choicest of the world ' s Intellectual stars. So, trembling with something akin to stage-fright, he advanced toward the least awful looking of them, a young man in a gray business suit. How are you, sir? My name is Markham. Sherlock Holmes replied : Glad to meet you. Ever found any clue as to who was the man with the hoe? Sir — . But now they are all on him. Dr. Johnson gives him a ponderous hand- shake and remarks, Rather poor English in your poem, sir. Edgar Poe tells him, •• You have too little of the aesthetic quality. Nero says, I should like to play an accompaniment to your poem on my violin, which remark makes the author of the Recessional blush. After Markham emerged he was carried off to the club house and made the guest of honor. Harry Wood, 1900.