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

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SENIOR CLASS PLAY THE SATURDAY EVENING GHOST Tne evening of Friday, April 21, at eight o’clock, on the stage of the Central the- atre, the senior class of 1944 began the events of their graduation with the production of a three-act play. The Saturday Evening Ghost.” This comedy is an adaptation by Tom Taggart of a well known short story by Oscar Wilde. The backgrouud of the action was an old English castle, the home for centuries of the Canterville family. Lord Canterville, the only living member, rented the castle to Mr. Hiram Otis, an American business man, who brought his very American family to England to escape kidnapers and other evils of Chicago. But when they arrived, the Otis family found they had to share the castle with the Canterville ghost, Sir Simon de Canterville, a gentleman of the 16th Century who murdered his wife and had long since established priority on haunting the castle! on Saturday and Wed- nesday nights. The humorous skepticism with which the American Otises handled the situation plus the traditional belief in ghosts, typical of the English, blended comedy and satire into an amusingly gay play. Following was the cast of characters: Lord Canterville; Sir Simon de Canterville, his 16th Century ancestor .... Charles Veatch Mr. Hiram Otis............Ernest Johnson Lucretia, his wife........................Darrell Peter Virginia, their daughter .... Eula Mae Bess Sonny, about 14..........Charles Miskell Pet, his little sister....................Margie Jessup Mrs. Unmey, the housekeeper . . Rosemary Crouch Lord Archioald Archibald . . . Eugene Durham 24

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I, Jean Leeteh, leave my ability to lead an orchestra at Chatsworth, also my love for “Louie’s” to Reva Wiser. I, Erma Wallenstein, leave to Helen Green my incessant stool-pigeoning, my love for Home Economics, and my Ned Sparks smile. , I, Ernest Johnson, leave my subtle approach to the fairer sex, and my numerous feminine pursuers, to Jewell Shoemaker. I, Charles Wilken, bequeath to Carroll Besgrove my Alan Ladd technique and Lou Costello figure, providing that he doesn’t abuse the privileges that these character- istics offer. I, Rosemary Crouch, leave my trips on the St. Louis trains, my rippling rhythm laugh, and also my partiality to uniforms to Marilyn Steidinger. I, Chuck Veatch, leave my partiality for pale, pink plaids, putrid penetrating pipes, and passion for parking, to that pompous puff of powder and snuff, Tom Carter, who is in dire need of such characteristics. I, Dorothy Carlson, leave my moronish actions, my love for myself and my inces- sant chattering to that sweet, unspoiled darling of the junior class, Ollie James. I, Ellen Vail, bequeath my pleasing personality, sunny disposition and my warm, tender spot in Dale Dameron’s heart, to Phyllis Drennen. And last but not least, we nominate and appoint Bob Nussbaum to be the sole executor of this Will, providing that he carries out our wishes as we so desire. Signed, sealed, and declared in the presence of the following witnesses. MAIRZY DOATS (Seal) DOZY DOATS (Seal) U. S. Navy (V-12 Style) Join the Navy, you high school lads. Join the Navy, as soon as you’re grads. This man’s force is a mighty tough field. So join the V-12—unless you want to get killed. They told me I would see the sphere, They fed me a line, that’s all too clear. Now', I'm seeing the world in a history book, And moidering Japs with the math I took! We live on a “ship,” three decks in all, We muster, like gobs, to the roll call, We march out the hatchway like a regular fleet. But the sign on the road says “University Street.” We have “chow” in this Navy, we hit our own “sacks,” All our slang is derived from the Navy brass tacks. We wear the jumpers, the skivvies, the “bootsies,” We’re gobs from our ears clear down to our tootsies. Don’t get the idea I don’t like it here, I love this life—let that point be clear. The studies we get, we need, we’re told. To provide us with stuff that will stop the foe cold. It takes teamwork for victory; teamwork for war. From the commander-in-chief to the infantry corps. We’re showing our parents their boys aren’t weak, We wanted our chance, and now we can speak. Let every young fellow, who’s able to take it, Join with this outfit he’s bound to make it. Only if, after awhile, he looks like he’s shot. Don’t be alarmed, it’s this history rot. A S BILL TAGG.

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Inspiration I may not be a Kipling, A Milton or a Grey; But as my thoughts go rippling. My mind is miles away. I sit and picture hour by hour The beauty of the past; And wonder when it’s over Why it couldn’t last. The flowers and the rocky hills, I still can see them there. The silver brooks and daffodils Leave music in the air. The moon has such a golden hue, The stars blink off and on; They furnish brilliant light anew, A darkness travels on. I've lost my inspiration For the writing of this poem. This litt!e thing—temptation Has caused my thoughts to roam. —Rosie Crouch. School Days First in the morning comes shorthand, In which our teacher loves us all; But we have to get our lessons, Or we’ll go to the study hall. Next in line comes typing. I like it very much, But we have to get our lessons Much to our disgust. Then there’s American History. It comes just before noon. We have a grand reunion, If Staker doesn’t come too soon. Now I’m in the study hall, Where I can sit and dream. I might study my lessons— If there weren’t any magazines. —Ellen Vail. An Ode to Brick Young I like you, Brick Young. I think you are tops. But talk ’bout refereeing, I think you’re sort of flops. Whei you call out of bounds,’’ it’s just one of your lies, And then someone yells, Get the hair out of your eyes.’’ But don’t let them kid you, because you are hairless; You should have used Kreml, and not been so careless. At least you do have a manly chest, But, it seems to have fallen below your vest. I do love the way you officiate so proudly, And the way that you toot your whistle so loudly. The players all hurry and run at your call. But one of these days, Brick, you’re goin’ to fall. The Pantagraph will soon need a new sports reporter, And when that day comes, your career will be shorter. They’ll pension you off to a farm you’ll appreciate, And games between animals they’ll let you officiate. —Chuck Veatch. That’s Norway to Talk! Waitress: Hawaii, gentlemen, you must be Hungary.” Customer: Yes. Siam, and we can’t Rumania long, either. Venice, lunch ready?” Waitress: I’ll Russia a table. What’ll you Havre?” Customer: “Anything at all. but can’t Jamaica little speed?” Waitress: I don’t think the cook can Fiji that fast, but Alaska.” Customer: Never mind asking anyone. Just put a Cuba sugar in our Java.” Waitress: Sweden it yourself. I’m just here to Servia.” Customer: Denmark our bill and call the Bosporus. He’ll probably Kenya. I don’t believe you know who I am.” Waitress: No, and I don’t Caribbean.” Boss: Samoa your wisecracks? What’s got India? Do you think arguing Alps business?” Customer: Canada noise. Spain in the neck. Abyssinia.” 25 —Norma Young.