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

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Think not, dear heart, because the snows are sifting, And bleaching wood and fence and field In powdery piles high drifting, That all the brighter days ' gainst us are sealed. For sometime, somewhere, the Spring ' s unfurling In waves of color, blue violets all dewy-wet, And in bright skies are flakes of cloud-foam curling, As if both sky and sea commingled met. Think not that hungry wolf-winds howling Across the plain, in search of prey, And round about the household prowling, Presage for us no fairer day. For in soft airs are tender shoots forth-springing, And orchard crofts are blanched with bloom once more, And somehow, somewhere, dearest heart, are singing The joyous birds forevermore. MARY DILLINGHAM t ' r- WM I. SA : Our Hermit WHILE on a camping trip in the wilds of northern Wisconsin we discovered our hermit. He was a man of medium height and slight build, with long auburn hair, a reddish beard, high forehead and wonderful brown eyes. Dressed in corduroy trousers, a blue flannel shirt, homemade moccasins and a deer skin cap, with a large box covered with skin strapped upon his back, in which he carried huckleberries, he presented an unique appearance. As he stood outlined against the underbrush, offering his berries, he made a picture that we campers have never forgotten. He resembled some of the pictures of Christ and we children used to wonder if he really were not Christ living on earth. All were very much interested in him and desirous of making his acquaintance ; with the grown people he was reticent, resenting their questions, but he seemed to take pleasure in telling us children stories of nature and pointing out forest secrets, hidden to our eyes. He never laughed at our ignorant questions and childish remarks but tried to satisfy us in his own beautiful way. We had heard so much of his little cabin and pet deer that the life he lead seemed ideal to us and the hardships of living twenty miles from any inhabitant through the long cold winter seemed as nothing. We loved and almost worshiped him and it was with great impatience that we looked forward to his Saturday trip, ready to walk to the village and back with him. Z1M3SG

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B : r ■ ■ ' ' ' ■ Drawn from Life by Bynum Fletcher

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The last Saturday of our outing came and all hated to say goodbye to n Our Huckle-berry Man as we called him. One of the campers got out his kodak and asked permission to take a pidure of the berry-box, seeking under that pretence to get a picture of the hermit, when to his sur- prise, the recluse seemed pleased and asked to have a pidure sent to him addressed to Will Cox, Star Lake. The camper with interest said that his name was also Cox. He replied that his name was really Wilcox but that he called himself Will Cox. Afterwards when one of the party was showing and describing camp pidures, to a young lady, the story of Wilcox was listened to with great interest. The young lady then related a story of two brothers who were students of Michigan University. They had been hunting in Wisconsin a number of years before, one brother staying longer than the other. There they had lost trace of him and had never been able to find him. The father and mother had both recently died and the estate could not be settled. She was corresponding with the older brother and would write him, sending the pidure and address of our hermit, in hopes that he might be the one. Inquiry was made and our hermit proved to be the long-lost brother. He agreed to return so that they might settle the estate. When this was done he accepted but a small sum of money and made his way back to his cabin in the solitude of the northern wilderness. His was a sensitive nature, one that craved the melancholy of the still pine forest and wild lake, happy in the heart of nature with his books and forest pets. And this ' his ' life, exempt from public haunt. Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks. Sermons in atones, and good in everything. MABEL AYRES At the Sign of Two Fingers F COURSE it was June. No well regulated fishing story ever deviates far from the months of June or July. The ° broad river n very naturally flowed peacefully on, the feathered songsters warbled, the glorious sunlight streamed through the luxuriant verdure of Nature and flashed and danced on the n broad bosom of the river. Any long-haired poet, strolling listlessly near, would have heard lessons and poems galore ° whis- pered from the lips of Mother Nature. Strange to say, however, these beautiful surroundings made not the slightest impression on two small beings, attached to poles and sitting on a log. These were not lads, nor were they happy barefoot little urchins, but simply a couple of kids who had sneaked away from home at the sign of two fingers. These boys did not sit silent, patiently waiting for the finish, but cussed thoroughly because they got no bites. Later they got tired (not weary with the day ' s sports ) and lay down on the log to rest. In stead of dreamily planning their happy futures, these little villains read from the adventures of Jesse. James and blew cigarette smoke in each other ' s face. Finally the evening came. (The darkening shadows did not deepen into night ). It simply got dark and the boys started for home on a double quick. Now the pace of one was not retarded by one of the B numerous cares of childhood, but by a good-sized boil on his laig. On reaching their homes these little truants were not met by a loving mother n with a kind heart and a sad face but were confronted by the ole man, who was hoppin ' mad and armed with a broomstick. He did not plead and endeavor to show them the error of their ways, but encouraged them up the stairs and to bed in a way that was a ° caution. Even here the boys did not lie sobbing in each other ' s arms but bawled lustily until they heard the tread of their daddy ' s boots on the stair when they shut up and went to sleep. So ends the story of a day ' s fishing, so common-place as to be unusual. JOHN KRAFFE $