Fairbury Cropsey High School - Crier Yearbook (Fairbury, IL)

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Manslaughter TIE stood over the still white form in the road. She was dead. No—she couldn't be. But it wasn’t his fault, she had loomed before his car before he saw her. She was dead, there could be no doubt about it. Ah, but who was there to see? It was dark. His head reeled as he wiped the blood from the fenders with his hand- kerchief. Then he thought of the party — bottles and dirty cards, and young bodies swaying to the exhilarating tempo of music. There, no one would ever know it was he, the bumper and radia- tor were clean. He tore his hand- kerchief into tiny bits and cast them into the night breeze, to be wafted far from that horrible scene. But what of the future? Always that inner dread and un- certainty. Condemnation, lingers accusingly pointed. They couldn’t do that. They couldn’t! They would never know though, he would see to that. lie contempt- uously rolled the white form into the ditch with his foot. He would leave, and never come back. He would be freed of the scene for- ever. His car roared down the road. He was hysterical with fear, but there was joy in escape, and he threw back his head and laughed. It was a long wild laugh. Then a dark object loomed ahead in the slender shafts of his head- light beams. I Iis laugh was cut short by a startled cry as the car crashed into the tree and blossom- ed into a hugh molten light. Then all was still. The silence that fell was the silence of death! Frkshman Math The freshmen come to me for help, I know not why they come. Perhaps they need encouragement, Or cannot find a sum. Regardless what the reason be, I always like to aid. For when I think I’ve helped someone I always feel repaid. For still I hold in mind the time When I too saw my doom, So why should I someone refuse Who cannot ’math consume? I sometimes think I ought to get A payment for my work. Yet when I see someone succeed I’m glad I did not shirk. It’s odd how stumped some people get When called upon to add, Yet when they've reached the hard sought end, They’re far from being sad. So though I am about tired out And wish they’d let me be. Perhaps some day they’ll know their math. And help a green freshie. Cathryn Wink. A MAN’S success is no greater than the man himself. This is entirely true in our rapidly moving industries today. If success along with virtue and happiness is de- sired we must catch the ball squarely, run through all possible opposition, and cross the goal standing up. LESLIE TAPPAN. Page 21

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Nigger Fishing THERE is hardly a single American sports lover that is not a rabid football enthusiast. The main reason for this reaction is that this great all-American game is not merely a test of brute strength but is more and more be- coming a game of wits in which the little fellow with an alert mind is pitted against men twice his size. This is also true in our every- day life. It is not necessarily the wealthy class who attain lasting honor and success, even though they do have a strong foothold and a decided head-start against their less fortunate brethren. In the long run it is the cagy fellow filled with an earnest desire for progress that eventually reaches the desired goal. There are many great football colleges in the country today such as Minnesota, Notre Dame, I ex- as Christian, U. S. C., Pittsburgh, Duke, and many more. However, not a single one of these teams would have received national rec- ognition in 1938 had it not been for their decided teamwork and exceptionally staunch determina- tion. These two characteristics combined with true skill are in- valuable on the gridiron. Another analogy is necessary. In everyday business life we come across innumerable barriers and stumbling blocks which impede our march toward success. Many instances require teamwork to overcome, and as in football, if combined with the necessary grit will produce surprising results and heretofore unconquerable obsta- cles can be tackled and cast into oblivion. A FTER perusing carefully The Complete Angler, by Izaak Walton, I have come to the con- clusion that there is a decided con- trast between trout fishing and the sport of fishing with a pole and line, or, employing a localism, “nigger fishing.” What could give one a keener feeling of anticipation than to lay your head on your pillow at night, knowing that when the morning dawns, you’ll be preparing for such an outing? With what ener- gy! What zeal! To anyone un- acquainted with the sport of pole and line fishing it seems such a waste! But to the devotee there is a promise of a day full of rapture in the beauties of nature, of the joy of feeling a tug on a line, thd thrill of the catch, the delight in the sparkle of the sun on the cap- tured fish. Beyond and better than these, the complete relaxation from daily cares, a rest that soothes the most harassed spirit. Aside from the pleasure one de- rives from the actual sport, aside from the bodily rest one enjoys, there is the bliss of solitude, a sol- itude that gives a man a chance to look within—“to see himself as others see him,” as Burns puts it, and to be inspired to bigger and better things. Of all sports, “nigger fishing” is one of which it can undoubted- ly be said, that the anticipation is no greater than the realization. CATHRYN WINK. LESLIE TAPPAN. Page 20

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Limericks There once was a Senior named Tappan, When he ate soup you heard his tongue slappin! His soup he would slurp. He’d belch and he’d burp, “I’m not slurpin,” said Tappan, “I’m lappjn!” You always see Barbara somewhere. And the reason that she is so fair, Each night, it is said. Before going to bed, In peroxide she bathes her fair hair! There once was a damsel named Metz, When asked to get married, said “Let’s.” But alas for her dove, He fell out of love, Now she’s pining her small self away. Pete Cooper did not feel so well, He had Kemple worried a spell: “I’ll have to flunk you, Your theme’s overdue.” He said you can go straight to — Mr. Watson and see what he thinks about it. My Sailboat The slap-happy waves shake their sharp tops in glee, So I guess we’ll be going, my sailboat and me. The white seagulls wheeling between sea and sky. Like a painting made real by a happy bird’s cry, And the powder-puff clouds which in number are seven Leave the sky dome so clear you can see into heaven. Oh, the cutter will roll back the jello-like sea. So I guess we’ll be going, my sailboat and me. And the seven white clouds keep the blue sky brushed clean Till the sky is as bright as the gay water’s sheen The seagulls are dipping their wings in the sea, So I guess we’ll be going, my sailboat and me. On the edge I will poise and my lungs I will till For the season’s first dip in the blue water’s chill Where the golden blue sunbeams ’neath the water crisscross And float toward the bottom to lie in the moss. I’ll climb up on the boat and drip back in the sea, Yes, I guess we’ll be going, my sailboat and me. Robert VonBorgen. Page 22