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

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An Awful Experience POOR LUCK always had dogged my footsteps and so I suppose it was nothing unusual for me to receive another visit from my unwelcome visitor — an own cousin, by the way, at that — and to make it worse he was compelled to stay over night. Now, when it is known that he was a restless sleeper and an awful kicker, I think all will agree that I had sufficient cause for displeasure. Twice before, had I slept with him and twice before, had I awakened, sore in body and sore in mind. Twice before, did my cousin assure me that he had had a pleasant night ' s sleep, while it was all that I could do to keep from pummeling the life out of him. However, 1 submitted to my fate, I couldn ' t help it, and went to sleep at ten-thirty. It seemed but a short time since falling asleep, when I awoke. I seemed to be in very uncom- fortable quarters and I experienced a strange, Stifling sensation. I tried to sit up, but could not move a muscle. It was very dark save for a single streak of light. Where was I confined and why ? These thoughts flitted through my mind but I could not answer them. I heard a noise — evidently, there were others in the room. Listening intently, I faintly heard these whispered words, Poor boy, too bad he had to die. Like a flash, the situation burst upon me. I was supposed to be dead and my uncomfortable quarters were a coffin. I experienced a prickly sensation in the region of my head — my hair was standing on end. I tried my best to cry out, but no sound passed my lips. Would I be able to wrench the coffin lid off, like the girl in Edgar Allen Poe ' s story ? Oh, but the terror I should experience in the meanwhile ! Why did I deserve such a fate ? I was trying to devise some means of escape, when I heard more whispered talking. They were going to take the coffin to the hearse. My brain was in a whirl. I did not know what to do. They approached the coffin and grasped the handles at the sides. The clanking noise caused by this action broke the spell which bound me and with a superhuman effort I wrenched the lid off and hurled it to the floor with a clash. A scream rent the air, and I awoke to find my cousin sprawling on the floor. In his restless sleep, he had lain crosswise on my chest, causing that strange, Stifling sensation. In my endeavor to relieve myself of the weight, I had lifted him bodily and had hurled him to the floor. He has never slept with me since. SAM GOLDSTEIN Little Johnny Sim-Sim stood in the gym-gym Wearing no gym-gym shoes. When Mr. Hall spied him, he slipped up beside him And frightened him into boo-hoos.

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A Night Piece Calm is the heavy odor-laden air, Deep and intense the silence is, no sound As far as ear can strain. All forces both Of earth and heav ' n have still ' d themselves to silence, And th all-vasty night and limitless Is indication of the wond ' rous power And magnitude of earth and of earths God. The flowers breathe out their very souls to fill The joyous air ; the trees clothed rich in green, But greyed and darkened in the gloom of night, Stand monuments, that guard the quiet world, Filled thro ' and thro ' with idleness of sleep, And cover ' d gently with the light perfume Of plants, deep-rooted in the fresh warm soil. What soft, reviving breath now reaches me ? From whence this gentle breeze, that, stealing, comes With gradual pace along the line of fields That stretch interminably as far as eye Can follow, then are lost in mistiness ? A Zephyr, newly ' scaped imprisonment Of all the pent up Winds, comes stealthily Along o ' er ever wid ' ning vales, from South To North, and soothingly it trembles o ' er My cheek an instant, then is felt no more, But passes on and on to mere oblivion. Thus, follow they, one after one, bringing The rich rare odor of the roses, burst Newly into bloom by warmth of summer night, And heavy-laden with the scent of flowers Of lesser growth, commingling with the sweets Of trailing honeysuckle newly ope ' d. The dim, young, struggling moon not visible E ' er now, shows faintly from the mantling clouds, Then disappears, but bursting through again, Successful at the last, she idly sails, Surrounded by the attending slars ; and, too, The clouds sail on, forever in attempt To hide her face. The misty lightenings pass And repass athwart the sky, and are infused Into the vap ' rous clouds t ' reflect a glow Of silver on the earth, that trembles far And farther on, into the edge of things : And when the clouds, clearing, have left the moon In full possession of a starry sky, The earth, all bathed in mellow light, becomes At once a wond ' rous dream of living beauty, Up sending odors to the face of heav ' n, Thrice thankful for the vision that it sees. ARTHUR BERKELEY GAUNT

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Waiting For an Inspiration i6f Q H pY TASK was to write a theme. I had been sitting at my desk for almost an hour but as yet no inspiration had come. Walter ! n someone cried from an adjoining room. I knew who that someone n was and meekly answered, Yes ' m. Don ' t you think you had better get a bucket of water ? The tone of voice plainly implied the answer. I thought I had better and, bucket on arm, I adjourned to the backyard. I was deeply impressed by the beauty of winter. A deep, white cover of snow lay on the ground and sparkled in the brilliant moonlight. Each branch of the spectre-like trees was outlined with a glittering deposit of frost crystals and each twig was a jewel-bedecked sceptre in the hands of its maternal bough. Not a breath of air was stirring and not a sound disturbed the peaceful tranquility of the winter evening. I placed my bucket on the ground and stood awe-struck by the natural beauty of the scene. I turned my eyes toward the great, silver moon, and the myriads of, twinkling stars that surrounded her. I tried hard to pierce the gigantic orb which shone down on the cold world below with such a kindly light. Slowly, a figure became discernible in its beaming face. It was the profile of a beautiful woman ' s head, the figure of the lady of the moon. An expression, entrancing and very devout, rested upon her radiant features as she gazed, wistfully, up into the depths of the deep, blue firmament. Ah ! n I cried, there my inspiration must come. My surroundings could only be conducive to such a conclusion. The awe-inspiring stillness, the supreme reign of peace and quiet could terminate in no other manner. My spirits began to rise and visions of an A+ theme danced before my eyes with the thought of the coming inspiration. My every sense became painfully alert and my gauzy, filmy air-castle of hope almost reached the eminent heights of my muse-like lady of the moon ; for the inspiration was coming ; I could feel it in my veins ; in another moment it would be mine. What was that! A horrible, squeaking, grating noise sounded from an adjoining yard. Some person was performing a duty similar to mine but in a much more faithful manner. Another long, doleful creak. My inspiration was rapidly going. Then a second pump, a rusty one, uplifted its mournful voice and pushed the inspiration Still further away. A door slammed, violently and, in a moment, a face peered into mine, — not the radiant features of the lady of the moon, — but the stern, reproachful countenance of my mother. She did not utter a word but grasped the bucket and quickly pumped it full of water. Then, placing the bucket on her arm, she tucked up her skirts and hurried to the house, leaving me, bewildered and speechless, with the grim realization that the inspiration was lost. WALTER GUEDEL mm 8fi Questions of the Day When was August Bohlen ? What did Lillian Peele ? Is Jessie Good ? Is Carl Browne ? Who said he saw Ruth Steele ? Can Edward Cooke ? or can he not ? Did Carl Adam right? Who doesn ' t know that little Raymond Knox with all his might ? What started Harry Coffin ? Why isn ' t Vina Weiser ? Can Lawrence Hitt a thing ? Is Leroy White from fear ? Is Bertha Gaunt ? What gave Frank Ayres ? Who says Ruth Storms ? Who sent Earle West ? Since when is Berg A. King ? Now, isn ' t Irwin Deere ? Whose hair was Philip Kirlin ? Did Charles Cross the road ? And who has got the money Which Victor Winterrowd ? Many in this rhyme should kick ; The author to the same Will give this piece of good advice : Go get another name. MARGARET WILLIAMS