Evening High School - Owl Yearbook (Baltimore, MD)

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THE OWL politiciansl And now entered in the field against her was a meek, mild, pleasant, likable dirt farm' er. She was furious. She construed it as a political conspiracy to bring her into ridicule. Was she chagrined? STO dip into the vernacular, for the staid English cannot describe it, she went haywire and nuts Up and down the county she unleashed a stinging campaign of ridicule and personal abase against the old man. Her campaign and hollerings easily put the antifsalooners, the klufkluxfklan, the holy rollers, and dry bishops to shame. How she ridiculed his dress-of either looking like a farm hand or then again of dressing up like a squire. Once, when he had in his unspectacular but thoroughly businessflike campaign remarked that if elected he would plow right in and do the best he could, she seized upon this utterance with a vengeance. Yes, he would plow, all right, with the politicians behind the plow holding the reins, while he would be out in front depriving a pair of mules out of a jobwa fitting substitute. Near the very end of the campaign, the little lady thought of a wonderful idea. What an ideal She would engage him in a public debate in the town hall. Up to now the old man had not taken her scathing criticism and ridicule seriously. He had just considered the source and let it go at that. But this invitation to meet on the same platform with her was too much. He was loath to accept it. He knew how she would attempt, and how near she could come, to giving the truth to her criticisms and ridiculing, personal remarks. He wasn't much to look at, he admitted to himself. Abraham Lincoln had said the same about himself. The old man took heart and his mind turned to thoughts gleaned from Carl Sandburg's intimate and masterful biography of Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years. Those long, lean, bare years given in the making of a man and fitting him for the great destiny that was to be his. The old man thought and pondered about the simplicity, modesty, humility, and the unswervf ing courage and dauntlessness of Lincoln. A smile came to light the old man's face as he thought of Lincoln's ready wit. The night for the public appearance of the candidates in the town hall arrived. Such a crowd had never before assembled. From the speaker's platform up to the topmost tiers of the gallery was a seething sea of people. How pleased was the fair one with her idea! This crowd and its attendant publicity represented the balance of power in the election. Everyf body was there but the old man. Still, that did not deter the little lady from starting the meeting, as that was just what she had expected, so she said. He was afraid, actually afraid to take or to defend a stand. Cn and on she continued to deride, ridicule, and criticize him. The crowd sickened of it. They were disapf pointed. They had not thought the old man would quit, although, apparently, public opinion and the election were against him. There is both a power and a magic in public opinion. Then at that moment when doubts ran high, the old man did make his entrance upon the scene. He captured the scene. He became the center and attraction of all eyes. For a split second, like just before lightning bolts out to strike tall pines set against a stormy sky, there was a silence-but only for a second. Then, a thunderous gale of hearty, infectious laughter, and howls of surprise and joy swept down from the topmost galleries, over the audience, up to the speaker's platform Cto which the old man was approachingb, and over to be lost on the echo. Could one believe his own eyes? There was the old man dressed in a worn pair of blue overalls and a Prince Albert coat, topping it off with a broadfrimmed straw hat blocked after the fashion of a high hat, and lo and behold! he was leading a team of mules. He tied the mules to the platform and slowly, deliberately, and seem' ingly unmindful of the uproar, took his place on the speaker's platform. He stood there with the waves of popular acclaim beating upon his head and shoulders, and he liked it. Anybody would have loved it. It was a thunderous ovation, tendered not to a foolish old man, but rather to a man who had not quit, a man who had dared to give the little lady all she asked for-and more. I left my plow out at the door, he began, only to be cut off by the deafening howls of laughter. Much as Lincoln had done on the political stump, the old man effected an apologizf ing pose and stated facts that Lincoln had given utterance to. Am I afraid of the little lady? Yes, in a way, for a woman is the only thing I am afraid of that I know can't hurt me. To hold a right opinion in all things, he continued, at all times leads to bewildermentf' He had sounded the keynote of indictment of the little lady. Vain as the search for a man who should be neither a living man or a dead one, should be the search for any real truth in her wholesale denouncement of me, he said. He wove argument upon argument, gesturing slowly with large, loosefjointed hands, and ended with the words that Lincoln, the youth of twentyfthree, had used to finish his first cam' paign for public office. If the good people in their wisdom shall see fit to keep me in the back' ground and out of this public office, I have been too familiar with disappointments to be very much chagrinedf' Q F i ftyffowr

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THE OWL Old Man By ROBERT J. HANSBN The party solons worked the old man for a good thing-good for a muchfneeded gift to the party warfchest, year in and year outg good for having his farm at their disposal for oyster roasts, crab feasts and bull roasts. There they herded the faithful to hear their mouthpieces fall lungs and tonguel save the county for you, dear peepulf' from the thieves, squanderers of the public money, and political deadbeats. Their deepest and only regret was that they themselves could not feed at the public trough. The old man fell an easy victim to the cajoling of the political spellbinders. It was food and drink, wife and child to him. It had always been that and bid fair to always be. The old man was in no way a politician. He was a dirt farmer in the truest sense of the word. He loved every speck of dirt on his farm, every twig in the woodland adjacent to the fields, and every drop of water in the old mill stream. He had been born on this old farm in the backwoods, his bare feet had left their imprints in the wake of the steelfsheathed plow, his arms had brought the ax down in mighty swings to fell the giants of the woodland, and in the evenings he had rested his weary bones by the old mill race. His father had been a ripfsnorter in local backwood politics. Here the folks took their politics seriously, often not knowing or caring who was in the White House as long as Uncle Jed was perpetuated in his job in the county Court House. His father had been the boss, undoubtedly because he was the roughest ustumpfjumpern in that neck of the woods. As if that were not enough, he was gifted with a pair of leather lungs that put the hogfcaller to shame and ran a close second to the husband callers. He was rude, but he was honest and held steadfast to the ideal that a public office was a public trust. He was typical and about the last of his noble breed that has been ostraf cized by today's sophisticated political practices. What! No law degree? My, my, and you intend to do what you promised in your camf paign pledges? You would never, never do! You have no tact, you cannot speak for hours and not say anything or juggle figures to balance the budget, thereby fixing a pleasing tax rate although there is a matter of a notfsofpleasing box car number deficit. No, today he would never have been boss or even a ward heeler. He couldn't have missed being a iirstfclass Communist. The boy had fallen heir to all the work on F iftyftlzvee the farm from his early youth, but in no way did he show promise to fall heir to the position of his father in political circles. He could not live up to his father's name, nor could he sucf cessfully live it down, as names have a way of sticking when they can be worked to the tune of the merry jingle of coin into the party war' chest. So he had become a hangfover in political circles and was generally known as the Old Man. He had never gotten anything out of politics and, strange to say, he did not appear anxious to do so. Politics were his meager source of selffimportance. He delighted in these young bucks coming to seek the old mans' advice, never noticing that the boys always had empty pockets rather than craniums. How he revelled in having his picture-taken at some political rally-appear in the papers. Sure! That's him. You could almost recognize him if it weren't for that pole. He never seemed to mind it, though. He was present at all the roasts, feasts and beerfests, to eat and drink his fill and gladfhand the ladies. Then, one day, like a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky, the party solons made the happy choice of selecting the old man as candidate for the leading county public office. It was the party's call that was not to be denied. So the old man rose to the occasion to do battle and unwittingly save the hides of those who coveted the position with its influence and opportunities for graft, but not at the price of the verbal bar' rage impending. It had so happened that the Women's Auxiliary and a couple of Housewives' Leagues were out to scalp the incumbent. Every stoppedfup drain, every rut in the road, every vacant lot that was an eyefsore, was marked up against the poor man. Then for the coming election, a little lady came forth to run for the office. A little gives lie to her true proportions. She was a size that was a warning against any asperations by a mere man. She had been the leader of the grand assault on the poor incumbent whose only fault was that he kept a dignified silence, being unable to get a word in edgewise. No amount of persuasion could move him to seek refelectionffor he had had occasion to feel the sting of a woman's tongue. Undoubtedly, the little lady was earnest and sincere in her aspiration for the public oflice to render a public service-a motive not akin to most males. How anxious she was to brow- beat and give a verbal dressing down tothe is .. ss r

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THE OWL A thousand steam whistles and sirens full blast might have mingled in the scene unnoticed following the old man s speech. Hats and papers and everything movable went hurtling through the air. Chairs came crashing down from the gallery upon the diehard adherents of the little lady. That poor soul, need it be said, fainted, suffered a nervous breakdown, and in the future confined her efforts to more ladyflike activf ities, having fully but sorrowfully learned that uwhgit kills the skunk is the publicity it gives itsel The Man Who Saw By CHARLES A. FECHER George Dawson pushed aside the tall, gaunt bush that stood directly in his path and stag' gered out into the little clearing. For a moment he stood in the center of it, clutching his hair with trembling fingers that would no longer obey his will. Sweat streamed down his face. Alter' nately, he went hot and cold. Always he could see before him gleaming faintly in the darkness, the dead, bloodfcovered face of Randolph Canning. There was no moon and only a few faint stars shone in the heavens. His eyes, accusf tomed now to the darkness, could make out the figures of the gigantic, denuded trees all about him. To his excited and fearfstricken imaginaf tion, their branches seemed incredibly long fingers, all pointed accusingly at him. He made his way to a stump at one end of the clearing and sat down. Burying his face in his hands, he gave vent to a low groan. There was no remorse in that groan, no contritiong only abject fear that already the forces of justice were reaching out after him. Sitting there, a prey to all conflicting emotions, he mentally reviewed the crowded events of the day. He had been seated at his desk in the Second National Bank hard at work that mornf ing when Randolph Canning, millionaire railroad man, had come in to see Ralston, head of the institution. Because his desk was close to Ralston's oflice and because the latter, with his customary carelessness, had left the door slightly ajar, he had heard every word the pair had spoken. And as he listened, the evil idea that was responsible for his present predicament was slow' ly formed in his mind. It seemed that the big railroad purchase he had been hearing so much about was to be completed in a few days. Can' ning's company, the C. J. E-? W., was to take over the assets and liabilities of the K. Es? M., and the former firm had agreed to pay a truly stupendous amount for goodwill. The final transaction was to take place at Canning's palaf tial country mansion on the following night, and Fiftygfivc he had come to draw the last payment of seventy' five thousand dollars now to have in readiness. Ralston had protested. Seventyffive thousf and dollars left unguarded in a private house for even one night. Ridiculous! Unheard of! But Canning had laughed at him, saying that he would be a good burglar indeed who could get into his house. And the result was that Can' ning left the bank a few minutes later carrying a small, black leather bag in which were seventy' live thousand dollars in crisp new bank notes. Dawson had followed him with his eyes as he left, a maelstrom seething in the innermost ref cesses of his mind. Seventyffive thousand dolf lars! He kept repeating it to himself, dwelling on it. He reviewed his own life, a life of poverf ty and subjection, of dull and hateful monotony here in the oflice. Always he had regarded those above him with resentment, hate. And now, here was his chance! Seventyffive thou' sand dollars! He knew the location of Canning's country estate. Nearly everyone in the community knew it. And he was fairly familiar with its interior. A few years back when the building of it was going on, its princely luxury had at' tracted a great deal of attention and an article about it had appeared in the Sunday paper together with a diagram of the first floor. For some reason he remembered it perfectly and he was convinced that getting in would be an easy job. And it was. Even now he had to marvel at the ease with which he had accomplished his entrance. But the events that followed! He shut his eyes and once again emitted a tortured groan. Armed only with an old revolver, he had made his way to the library, entered it with ease, and started to work on the safe when Ran- dolph Canning had surprised him. Scarcely realizing what he was doing, he had raised his revolver, leveled it, pulled the trigger and the body of Canning fell dead at his feet. For a moment he had stood there, scarcely able to move. And then there were footsteps