Evanston Township High School - Key Yearbook (Evanston, IL)

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THE NOON HOUR Let ' s recall a walk about the parking grounds dur- ing a warm noon hour. As we run down the steps, the first thing to greet our eyes is a freshman trying to walk the ridge on the little white fence; it is said that a great deal may be learned by merely observing individuals. By watching this youngster, we find that he has a great deal of patience and no equilibrium. As if to help himself, he sticks out his tongue and, with great celerity, wags it from left to right, at the same time, wildly waving his arms in the air. But for all his patience he has little success, for he proves again and again to the saying that everything that goes up must come down. Could his Latin teacher see his efforts she would tell him that if he had half as much patience with his Latin . . . etc. There is always a group of horseshoe enthusiasts to be found just north of the bicycle shed, sounding like a number of village blacksmiths. Just beyond the fence, out on the track field, several athletic youths are sprinting around the cinder oval in scanty attire. But most of us are less anxious to exert our- selves, and are content merely to meander, choosing the cars we like best, and diverting ourselves in idle talk. The cinders make a pleasant sound as they are crushed under our feet. The sky is deep blue over- head. A warm, caressing wind stirs up little swirls of dust and rustles the leaves. Although the casual stroller would not suspect that our parking grounds contain anything which might be called a beauty of nature, the person who is quick to observe can find endless enjoyment in just such simple sounds and sights as these, and their memory remains after the beauty itself has passed away. — Ruth Thorn. THE KITCHEN IN THE NEW CAFETERIA While helping prepare refreshments for Senior Evening I had occasion to examine closely the kitchen of our new cafeteria. My first impression upon entering was of the exceptional order in which everything was kept. The tables were white and glistening and likewise the sinks. The floor shone, and there was no sign of any food. Upon closer inspection I discerned that the thirty gallon caldrons in which soup is prepared were empty and had been scoured so that there was nary a stain or spot of soup marring their surface. I enjoyed myself immensely by pulling a lever which automatically opened several oven doors and pulled out long trays on which bread or muffins are baked. But the ovens were bare; and so pushing back the lever, I shut the whole contraption up again. Next I tested the mammoth refrigerators; but finding them bolted with unbreakable Yale locks, I abandoned them surmising that therein resided the food. The bread-cutting apparatus was of especial interest except for the unfortunate deficit of bread. After spending a full half hour admiring the spot, I decided that unlike our kitchen at home this was a place of truly mechanical beauty but no place for a hungry boy! ! — Howard P. Emrich Page Twenty-nine

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All right, Bud. That ' s all I want to know. Thanks for listening to me, dad, he said as he backed out of the room. By the way, son, are you going to take the exam? I won ' t pass it, but I may try. Do I have to? he asked anxiously. Oh, no, do whatever you like. You ' re a keen father, he smiled appre- ciatively. The same sun was annoying the same boy with its ever sparkling ray of light. It was the time of the preliminary examination. Bud had decided to attempt the fool thing to see if it were possible. His thoughts concerning college had been constantly changing; they wavered from one thing to another. Bud was certain that his father trusted his decisions. Wouldn ' t his father ' s pride in him increase if he didn ' t back out? He had been spending the last few after- noons studying, but he was not over con- fident. The examination will be over in five minutes. Bud breathed deeply, glanced over his paper, and stalked up to the front of the room. Once outside he let a great groan escape him. Thank goodness, that ' s over, he breathed. In response to his father ' s question Bud only said, It was awfully hard. I don ' t think I could possibly have passed it. He stared at the floor, kicking the rug with his foot. The examination papers were being passed back. Those who had taken the examina- tion were excited. Bud ' s hands shook as he took the paper that would determine his chances. On the outside was written: It is better to judge and organize material than to cram facts. Inside something dazzled him as if a sudden ray of sunlight had struck the page. Passed. Big pine, Must I, Always, sigh and sigh in the wind? No, little one, Be still — still, she sighed. He did not wish to be still, — He did not wish to sigh, — But he was mad to laugh and laugh. The wind only moaned Through the green of the branches above him. — Gertrude Fox Page Twenty •ei bt

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TEE TIME Edward Zuver Lewis kOWN on the Florida east coast where men are old men and boys can ' t go for a week, unless they save up for a year, there were three big shots, so big that Will Rogers and I are the only writers who dare call them by their first names. It was an early spring day, and a cool breeze blew gently over the veranda of a club house on a private golf course, and these three elderly gentlemen were sitting leisurely drinking ice water and enjoying the freshness of the balmy air. They care- lessly chatted on a subject far from that of the business and productive world which they had long since left behind, for they at last were spending the vacation of life which old men seldom have the opportunity to enjoy but which these men well deserved after all they had accomplished in their early lives. They were praised the world over for their remarkable achievements in their in- dividual lines of business and science. Con- sequently the famous trio had become the best of friends in the years gone by. They often spent a few weeks together in which they were much annoyed by assiduous news- paper reporters and photographers. The rea- son why they would arrange to get together was, probably, to carry out their natural love of argument. John knew that oil made the greatest contribution to the world, — no question about that. Tom knew it was electricity, and Henry knew it was the flivver, and you can ' t disagree with any of them. I ' ll tell you, Henry, the ninety-year-old John was saying in a loud voice, with a plea- sant smile on his wrinkled face, the reason I love this game and first came to play it. Thirty years ago, he began, I was in extremely poor health. My stomach had gone back on me and my hair had all fallen out, which I was told meant that I had as many diseases as doctors to make diagnosis. What ' s more, whenever that trolley car would make the turn in front of my house I would tremble like a leaf. But still I had to go to New York every week and be helped up to the top floor of our building, where I would listen to the board meeting. As my voice wasn ' t so good as it should have been, my brother William and the others would do most of the talking. I would cover up my head with the Times and either listen to long discussions on sales resistance and innumerable other things, or doze off to sleep. Often, however, I used to wake up and be surprised to find the subject of the directors ' arguments not the critical problems of the company but their latest scores in golf. Now, as I knew that these men had the best business minds in the country, I began to believe that there must be something strangely kindred in golf and the oil industry, if they were as good as they said they were. So I purchased a bag of clubs and startled my doctors by taking up this game seriously and gaining rapidly in health. Since then I ' ve tried never to miss a day, and that is why in my ninetieth year I can play my little nine holes daily, and that, too, is why it is useless for Tom, here, not being an oil man, to hire Walter Hagen to give him enough coaching in the next three years, so he can catch up to my present game when he is ninety. Winking at Henry and sipping a little water from his glass, he leaned back in his chair with a childish twinkle in his eye, and waited a reply he knew would come from Tom, who though slightly deaf had been listening intently. That oil industry monopoly on this old- age golf game is silly, Tom spluttered. All right, suggested John, let ' s arrange a game and play it out. P W Thirty