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

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© Vi i after wandering up one street and down another they passed a large, substantial-looking inn set close to the roadside, and from which came the smell of pastry and the clink of flagons. Bide thee here under this tree, quoth Jolly Robin, while I see what the good Saint hath sent us. So in he went at the kitchen door while the two were left outside to pray for his speedy return. The tap-room was crowded with many folk who surged to and fro along the table laden with viands, sei zing what they could and cramming much into their mouths before they reached the host, who stood at the head of the board and reckoned up the bill of each guest. Now in plunged Robin, for he had a stout heart and a mighty hunger beneath his jacket. He first forced his way to the sandwiches, but as he neared the pile his spirits fell. Prithee, thou rascally knave, he called to the eagle -faced youngster behind the table, wouldst thou sell me chips with a shaving of meat for four pence? An thou canst give me no better food than this, I 11 e ' en dust thy jacket. Speak up, thou varlet ! Hast thou no sauce in bulk like the samples set out in yonder dishes ? By the bones of good Saint Abigail, this is a beggarly house. There is not enough in all those dishes to dust our gullets withal. Here, these half-cooked pullet eggs will I take to Will Scarlet and these cakes and eke this cheese will serve to whet the hunger of Little John. A murrain seize thee for thy stingy fare ! This half-burnt meat and these cold potatoes I must e ' en take or starve. Thou ape-faced loon, stand not grinning at thy betters ! An thou were half my size I would crack thy pate for thy impertinence. I ' 11 burn a hundred pound of candles at the altar of the Virgin for a brown pasty and a fat skin of ale. Now out upon it ! Call you that chicken soup ? T was a shame to spoil so much water, but an thou wilt let the pullet wade through it once more, I 11 take a bowl of it in lieu of better. Thou liest, thou saucy baggage, if thou sayest that ' s milk. I ' ve lived among cows these many years and never saw I such chalky liquid. An yonder thimble which thou callest ice-cream would stand in the sun for half an hour and still the corn starch would hold it up. And so this knavish rogue would charge me five shillings for these few bites. I II knock thy tongue down thy lying gullet for thee, an thou sayest it is worth more than two pence. In sooth, I have a name for being gen- erous, but by ' r Lady I 11 not be cheated. I ' ll pay thee what thou wilt, but no pity will I have upon thy purse when thou dost dine with us in Sherwood. And so endeth the tale of how Merry Robin bought his lunch and fared no better than we do. Roger Ballard, ' 06. Eng. VIII. IF all the world were an English book And all the sea a theme, What would we do for : s and As? How scarce they all would seem ! ft.ftorjHrnui

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— . £ Jow as the winter passed, the beautiful piec together. With fast beating heart and trembling with excitement he worked, tilting the pieces together, until only one more piece, the most beautifully carved of all of them, remained to be put in. He lifted it and gently, firmly set to work, but old hands are not so strong as young, and old eyes are dim at times and candle light is but steady for such delicate work as violin making, and the last piece was too small by full thirty -second of an inch, not much perhaps in other things, but far, far too much in such work as this. For a moment he sat dazed and then trembling with grief and anger that this last dearest friend should fail him, he threw it upon the floor and stamped upon the work which had required such expenditure of time and patience, stamped upon it until it could not be distinguished from the shavings and cast-off wood under his feet. Then he tottered to his chair beside the fireplace and there was no sound save that of the falling embers and the sputtering candle. As the night advanced the fire burned lower and lower and at last burned itself out, leaving only the red embers, but these, too, soon died. Still he did not move, but sat there, tired and discouraged. An old man ' s life work was done. Flora Frick, ' 06. Eng. VIII. Robin Hood Buyeth Lunch a cnsp, fresh morning in June, as the little birds chirped in bush and tree, long before the sun had dried the dew from leaf and blade, bold Robin, with Will Scarlet and Little John, set forth from the greenwood shade in search of adventure. Marry, quoth Robin, methinks t were well we turned our steps toward Nottinghamshire, for long has it been since our good friend the sheriff has had cause to think of our jolly company. So on they strode through hedges and byways, past cottage id castle, trolling many a song and bantering with every fair lass they met, until the towers of the town glittered in the sun before them. By ' r Lady, spake Little John, halting in the dusty road and looking sorrowfully at his companions, I would I had a loaf of good bread or a pasty and skin of stout beer to wash it down withal, for my stomach grips me like a vise and I fear we would fare but ill an we fell in with any sheriff ' s men. Well said, laughed Robin, and now 1 think me on t, I can recognize a feeling in me as much like yours as two peas in a pod ; albeit I know of no inn or cottage where three hungry lads might eat their fill ' twixt here and yonder town. So let us trust the good Saint Dunstan will take pity on us. So on they marched, three abreast, swinging their staves and whistling merrily, till

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The Wanderlust [HE Wanderlust is the passion which causes men to wander over the face of the earth. Once possessed by the wandedust one becomes a nomad, a rambler through strange places. It is this fancy, only in a small degree, which we follow in our pleasure trips, such as they are. Did you ever take a long drive of twenty miles or so for pleasure? No, you say, Too slow for me. When I want to go any place, I go at the rate of sixty miles an hour by rail or auto. But in the very fact that it is slow lies the charm of a pleasure drive. That is to get away from the haste and rush and push of the strenuous life. I like to have a good horse to pull me and take a long drive, devounng the freshness of the morning, drinking in the beauty of the forest, the sweet simplicity of the country. I like to stop at each hilltop to admire the view, looking off across the country for a mile or two over field and forest to the river winding somewhere safe to the sea. I descend the hill and follow the road which winds through the fields, then straggles through the woods. 1 loiter slowly along the river road where the sycamore and willows grow. 1 stop at a farm house, half hidden from the road by trees and shrubbery, for dinner, and in the afternoon I rove on through fields and meadows and a little song of Richard Hovey ' s comes to me, Whose furthest footstep hath never strayed beyond the village of his birth Is but a lodger for the night in this old Wayside Inn of Earth. Tomorrow he shall take his pack and set out for the ways beyond On the trail from star to star, an alien and a vagabond. Maurice Thompson, 06. Eng. VII. o H, what is so cruel as a day in June ? Then if ever come trying days, And teachers try pupils if they be in tune And over each, heavily, hard work lays. Whether we work or whether we listen We hear summer call and we see it glisten. Every one feels a thrill of delight, A longing within that rises and towers, But, heavy laden with books, each night Trudges home midst sighs and June showers. VuM ' cy