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

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® Cat-tail Bound SOFT winds that come and go To us are calling. Bearing on gentle wings Echoes of singing. Waits the light boat for thee, Float o ' er the waves with me, Santa Lucia ! Santa Lucia ! And the night was all that the song told, as it floated down the river. There was a peaceful quiet everywhere, for it was just that hour when the world pauses between the day ' s activity and the night ' s rest. Yet there was sound, for myriads of night- voices were awakening to greet the moon. The gentle breeze that wafted the song, rippled the water and lifted the grass at our feet. The willows across the river were growing gray in the evening light and their long branches could scarcely be seen in the cool water. Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia! The refrain came more faintly as the singers moved farther up the river. It recalled my companion and me from the dreamy spell of the place and hour and we remembered our purpose. We had planned to go with the party of singers to a little island to see the moon rise, but had been delayed and now we were about to follow them. In a few min- utes we were in a boat and pursuing them rapidly. Yes, we thought, we shall join them soon. My friend sat primly in one end of the boat; she could not row and almost feared to speak, while I pulled diligently. So diligently did I pull that the direction became a matter of little importance. After an especially noble effort the boat plunged far into a thick growth of cat-tails. My companion gave one shrill shriek and then said in resignation, We shall sit quietly and wait until some one comes to our rescue. We were, as it seemed, hopelessly entangled in a veritable forest of cat -tails, with a lower stratum of slimy green algae. The situation was thoroughly uncomfortable, as we knew this to be the haunt of venerable grand-daddy long legs, mosquitoes and numerous specimens for entomologists. As we sat quietly listening to the symphony of the water-bugs, the moon peeped inquisitively over the rushes at us. It looked like a Japanese print, the great round sphere of yellow with the dark silhouette of the cat- tails against it. But the beauty of the scene did not appeal to us then. This waiting was growing tiresome, both to Mrs. Grundy and myself. Something has to be done, I remarked with emphasis. Done, done, the frogs croaked sarcastically. Regard- less of Mrs. Grundy ' s direful tales, I began to struggle with the oars. Though each moment seemed to entangle us more, I was persistent. At last we were really free, out of the cat-tail forest. Slowly, patiently, I rowed toward the landing. We had seen the moon rise and we were willing to return. It was consoling to know that there would be more nights to see the moon rise. Did you speak, Mrs. Grundy, or was it a frog croaking, or only an echo ? Myrtle Johnson, ' 06. Eng. VII.

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Blue Top felt very sorry for her, and wished that it could help her. Presently it heard her say aloud: 1 know what I ' ll do, I ' ll burn a match and see if he loves me. Here was its chance; there was no time for fear now, and with a leap it landed at her feet. Mary Ann looked surprised, but hastily picked it up, struck it, and watched it slowly burn. The match stood erect so that its head would not fall off, for then her heart would be sad. Mary Ann watched it carefully, and just as the little Blue Top breathed its last, it heard her exclaim joyously, He loves me! Elsie Lamson, 06. Eng. VIII. ® April Skies K.UFPh jPRIL skies are bright and fair, Flecked with white clouds everywhere. Made of sadness, made of sighs, Made of gladness, April skies, May my life forever be Fresh and fair and bright as thee ! As thy tears bring flow ' rs in May To cheer, mayhap, some dreary way, May mine bring high resolve to me And nobler purpose. May I see — As after rain and storm thou art — My way more clear, more plain my part. As sunshine follows e ' er thy sighs, May gladness follow where ' er lies Sadness for me, fair April skies ! i m«§a teTftif fcr £.iutaho»i ») ' 4«lfe sayj,

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A Thanksgiving Story r was Thanksgiving Day. Without, the snowflakes whirled merrily down. Within, a blazing fire glowed and spluttered in the library fireplace, glancing on the bronze images and marble busts on the bookcases, throw- ing a stray gleam, now and then, across the nose of a bust of Beethoven. The firelight shone also on a very much ruffled, discontented little girl, who sat kicking the head of a tiger-skin on the floor, and gazing indignantly into the fire. This was myself, on the morning of Thanksgiving Day. My kitten, Snip, came into the room and rubbed himself against my foot, arching his back and purring loudly. I lifted him to the table by my side, and had quite an interesting conversation with him. I always told Snip my troubles, and he never interrupted me in the telling, nor afterwards violated my con- fidence. That morning I had gone to the kitchen to see if I could help cook, and what do you think she said ? Now, Miss, run away. Little girls must n ' t bother around Thanksgiving time. You better take a nice nap, so you 11 be all fresh when the folks come this afternoon. Indignantly I marched back to the library, determined never to speak to cook again. And now, I concluded, what shall we do? Snip looked wise and said nothing. Along with my other determination, I had decided not to close my eyes that day. However, the glow of the fire was like balm to my wounded dignity, and before long I found my angry feelings subsiding, and my eyelids drooping, despite my most vigilant efforts to keep awake. The soft purr of Snip, who had fallen asleep, changed to the melancholy November wind that sighed through the trees. The dancing firelight and flickering shadows changed to leaves of crimson and gold and brown, that fluttered softly down and lay in shifting heaps on the bare ground. Men and women, dressed as I had seen them in old pictures, hurried to and fro, apparently very busy. Some were preparing the meat of deer and other smaller game for the great open fires in the center of the clearing, over which the women presided, turning the meat suspended from bent saplings. Others were coming in from the dense forest, laden with game. On the outskirts of the busy little crowd, Indians squatted on the ground, smoking stolidly, or moved slowly about wrapped in their gay blankets, their long black hair decorated with feathers. A young girl stood near me. I was instantly attracted toward one near my own size, and although she was dressed in a strange fashion, there was something very sweet in her face, with the brown eyes and soft little curls, which her Puritan cap tried in vain to repress. Her short- waist ed, long gray dress would have been severe in its extreme plainness, if a broad white kerchief had not been folded across her shoulders. She smiled at me and I went nearer. In a few moments we approached one of the fires, around which the quaintly dressed people were gathering. My eyes roved to the little circle of cabins on the edge of the forest. In one of them an old man was carefully removing a pair of horn-bowed spectacles, which he placed in a large open book on his knees. Then closing it with reverent care, he @