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

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Harrington ' s Predicament 1$$S RTHUR HARRINGTON was in a predicament. He was in love. Now, ordinarily, being in love is not considered a serious predicament, but when one is in love with two girls and doesn ' t know which he likes better, he is in a very serious predicament. Such was Harrington ' s condition of affairs. His feelings were in a state of chaos. When he was in the presence of Miss Dorothy Wharton and beheld her becomingly clad, as usual, he was positive that he cared more for Dorothy; but, strange to say, when he saw Miss Clarice Adams in one of her dainty dresses, he was equally positive that his preference was for Clarice. At this time Harrington became interested in amateur photography. He practised faithfully on inanimate objects until he was confident that he bad gained sufficient experience to attempt the pictures of Miss Dorothy and Miss Clarice. Accord- ingly, one bright day he took a photograph of Dorothy and immediately afterwards one of Clarice. He took the camera to one of the leading photographers in the city to have the plates developed. He requested the firm to mail the prints as soon as finished to the respective addresses of Dorothy and Clarice. Several days later Harrington was rapidly walking toward Miss Dorothy ' s residence, picturing the warm welcome he would receive and Dorothy ' s thanks for the picture. He was soon at the house, but instead of being asked in, he was politely told that Miss Dorothy Wharton was not at home. Surprised but undaunted, he proceeded to Miss Clarice ' s, thinking that he loved Clarice better after all. He reached her home, but here he was politely informed that Miss Clarice Adams was not at home. Harrington pondered deeply, but could not arrive at a logical conclusion. The more he thought of it, the more puzzled he became. He finally decided to go to the photographer that had finished his plates to see if he could get the negatives. Arriving there he asked for the negatives. He had no sooner looked at them than he sank into the nearest chair, completely overcome. In the center of the negative was Dorothy Wharton ' s photograph, clear and distinct ; a little to the left was a faint yet unmistakable likeness of Clarice Adams. When taking the pictures, Harrington had neglected to reverse the plate-holder, consequently making two exposures on one plate. Now he is bemoaning fate and the fact that cameras were ever invented. SAMUEL GOLDSTEIN Youth IT WAS the night before Christmas, a night in complete harmony with the joy, peace and hope of the time. The brilliant moon shone upon a white earth horn a cloudless sky. The air was just chill enough to be infectiously brisk, and created in me a springing step as I walked along the silent street, thinking pleasant thoughts of the past and present, in accordance with the spirit of the Christmas-tide, and building air -castles for the future. I looked ahead into the misty beyond, and behold ! I saw an ever changing scene passing as if in review before a conspicuous figure, my future self. I would be an engineer, engage in work for some large railroad, work which would allow me to travel, as I have always wished to travel, continually. I saw myself in a favorite position on the rear platform of a speeding train, watching and enjoying. I should build up a happy home, and would enjoy many a comfortable evening before a cheerful fireside. The scene changed. I would be a lawyer. I would plead, always careful to be in the right ; I would engage in politics; nay, I would be a member of Congress and in that position would engage in my favorite pursuit, debate. And again I would have a home. And so my dreams changed, none impossible, all improbable. The fiery optimism of youth accomplished much that night toward the improbable, but always one picture remained the same, that of the home. And again — But I reached my destination, and sadly gave up my happy forecasting. The moon still shone, but without its former luster ; the sky appeared a trifle misty. And I was sorry. IRWIN COTTON

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The Imp ' s Revenge Early at morn, in a very bad fix, An imp of Satan crossed the Styx. A surly look spread o ' er his face, He seemed the fiercest of his race. He suddenly spoke, with a lowly moan, I ' ll kill Saint Peter for what he ' s done ; He refused me way through the pearly gate, To the streets of gold and the heav ' nly state. I ' ll fix him, in an angry tone, I ' ll bring him down from his lofty throne. The latest infernal machine he shall feel, A war-like, death-dealing automobile. Suiting his word, he, with hasty stride Climbed in the machine which stood at his side, And, with an oath, turned on the power, Which hurried him upward at forty an hour. The terrible thing mounted higher and higher, Leaving far behind the brimstone and fire. It climbed with speed up the narrow way, Stopping for nothing, night or day. At length, the machine, at a reckless rate, Smashed square against t he pearly gate. Then, the gong, with its terrible din, Aroused Saint Peter and those within. Saint Peter, appearing in angry haste, Opened the gates with scowling face, Demanding, in his loudest tone, Why, thus, approach the heav ' nly zone ? The imp replied with fiendish grin, At great expense and work I ' ve been To bring the last invention of man For you to try with your own hand. At once, Saint Peter, without a thought, Jumped in the machine the imp had brought, The wicked fiend with skillful hand Turned the thing from the heav ' nly land. Then, he jumps, quickly, from his place, As it darts off at its fastest pace, Leaving Saint Peter all alone To make his way to the torrid zone. ROY McINTOSH Oh Boys! If you want to get wed before you are dead, I ' ll tell you just what to do : Be a villain outright and she ' ll marry on sight Just to make a man of you. When asked as to his favorite bird The two o ' clock owl, he said. We wonder who the girl can be Who has so turned his head.

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O Music, child immortal , Born of boundless sympathy Behold me at the portal Of thy mystery. Behold and do not leave me, For lo, you then would grieve me ; O Music ne ' er deceive me With decay. Thy soft sweet sounds relieve me, And thy melodies, believe me, Drive soul-depressing thoughts Along their way. So, Music, take thy golden harp And gently play. Ha, the wond ' rous harp is lifted, And ah, there come to me Rare sounds like sunshine sifted Thro ' a leafy tree, Where steals across the vibrant strings, In clear-voiced melody, A whispering of the higher things, A joyous ecstacy. Hark ! the melody is ending Forth in clearer notes is sending Gracious notes forever blending With delight. Beauteous notes forever tending To God ' s height. Ha ! again the harp is lifted, Ah ! again there comes to me Mournful sounds like thunder rumbled O ' er a desert lea, Where emanates from throbbing strings, In deep-voiced harmony, A feeling of profounder things, A painful ecstacy. A steady waning of a solemn sound And a note that dies Where broken lies The string unwept in silence vast, profound.