Glenville High School - Olympiad Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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Ethel Duer, Editor AN ADVENTURE IN COWARDICE I HAVE changed my mind; I am neither brave nor strong in the face of threatening circumstances. As in geometry —proof: Early summer saw my mother and me safely stored away in our lake shore cottage. How good it seemed to break away from school books, pavements, high shoes and table cloths ! There the grass grew untamed, and the pebbly beach shone in the morning sun. But at night this same grass was capable of ghostly rustlings and the lake was dark and still. There was only one other family of early migrators on the beach, this being several doors from our cottage. The children told cheerful tales of tramps and other suspicious characters often entering the cottages. Returning home one night from their house, I was startled by a rifle shot prob-?bl fired by some negligent hunter, hut which my imagination readily conceived as from the hands of a prowling tramp who had been infesting the railroad track. However, when I entered the cheerfully lighted living room where mother sat placidly reading, and Patsie, the feline pet of the family, purred in pensive mood, my fears were temporarily dispelled. The natural tact of human nature prompted me to pass on the stirring information I had received. But mother, though easily roused, paid scant heed to my story. After we had sat reading for some time, I found myself nodding over the magazine, perhaps because of the drizzling rain upon the roof. Alas! My lethargy was of short duration. Before ascending the stairs to bed, I went in search of Patsie. She had wandered out onto the front porch, and on approaching her, I was assailed by a low and indignant growl. My mind acting logically, I determined that she must be growling at something—and that something must be in the front yard. There the animal stood peering through the screen, tail in a ridged, bristling line, hack up. As I listened, the rhythmical spat of the rain upon the leaves and grass, the song of the night insects, served but to enhance the lurking fear in me. The atmosphere seemed divided into measures by the drip, drip, drip of the rain, and the chirping of the crickets; each interlude a period of tension, an ominous waiting. Suddenly breaking up the fearful spe'l, I snatched up Patsie and ran gasping into the living room. “Mother!” I cried in dramatic tones, “Patsie just growled at something on the front porch!” Seeing the twinkle in her 25

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THE REFLECTOR will, if properly used, help us to reach that coveted height, called Success? The chances are that most of us never have considered these facts and yet when they are brought to our attention they cannot he consistently denied. There are people about us—people whom we meet every day—who have, by circumstances, been compelled to leave school before they have even completed their elementary education. Let us not look down upon these people because they can’t read Latin classics or do some of the mental stunts we can. They could, probably, if given the opportunities we have, be altogether as good or better than we are. They must work before they have acquired the polish of education which would help them achieve success. Remember that the education which we are now acquiring is only a means of lightening our life work later. Education might well be termed the one-way elevator to the top floor of the building of life. Let us secure as much education as we can, for upon us will rest the rebuilding, in part, of the nations now engaged in the great war. Please don’t skip over Come Across this article just as soon as you have seen the words “school spirit.’’ Those words, which we are eternally bringing to your notice, form a subiect which can never be unworthy of discussion. They stand for the thing which, in previous years, has made Glenville famous whether she had a winning team or a losing one. This year, we are sorry to say, there has not been toward athletics the spirit in the school which has. in previous years, been so dominant. We have not supported the teams as we should. We have not set apart a counle of hours and a few cents a week, with which to see the team play. Those same teams, which we are so lax about supporting, have spent about ten hours a week in practice—ten hours of hard work while you refuse to spend a couple of hours in the enjoyment of watching them plav. If members of our school had been accused of lacking school spirit a couple of years ago, there would, no doubt, have been a fight, but now, the accusation is true and there are no grounds for argument. Freshmen, you have not done the right thing by the school. You have come in here and taken the benefits of the school, but have not, in return, manifested an interest in the welfare of the school or its teams. If you could know what a good feeling it gives you in your Senior year to lie able to say that you have never missed a game since you came, you wouldn’t let anything keep you away from them. Sophomores and Juniors, you have, probably, been giving the best support in the school. You have been loyal. Keep it tip and improve on it. We’re all for you as long as you do it. Seniors, you have been giving the poorest support in the school considering the length of time you have had to learn loyalty. Your batting average for going to the games has been miserable. Try to remedy this. Let’s see you all at the games. And now, upper-classmen and underclassmen, let’s all work together to have bigger crowds in proportion to the size of our school at all school affairs than other schools have. You know how a word of encouragement brightens you up and strengthens your backbone. Support has the same effect on a team. Let’s have practically the entire school at the very next game and let’s adopt as a motto “A hundred spectators behind every man on the team.” The Reflector board Criticism is always glad to receive the thing that paves the way for progress and we are desirous that our magazine be the best school magazine in this section if possible. So, readers, please put your criticisms and suggestions in the Reflector box, the box with the mirror, in Room 8.

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THE REFLECTOR eyes, I began to feel foolish over my unreasonable agitation. “Well,” I repeated indignantly, “she was growling at something ! Still inwardly shivering, I followed mother upstairs, when I heard more remarks from the irate Patsie below. “Patsie,” I summoned, sternly, “come here at once! She, interested, obeyed not. Scraping up all the courage I possessed, I dashed wildly down the stairs and up again with the recreant animal. If you growl again. I'll spank you, you naughty thing! One unacquainted with cat nature might think this terrible threat sufficient, but Patsie promptly emitted another stirring yowl into the dark area below stairs. “Mother,” I said in firm tones, we must put something over the stairway so that the person can’t get up. I must here pause long enough to advise the abandonment of this narrative in case you have never experienced the terrors which the imagination is capable of calling forth. Otherwise you are not sympathetic with my state of mind. After we had fastened a window shutter over the trap, we heaved a sigh of relief. At any rate, if the villain should attempt to climb the stairs in the dark he would whack his head soundly on the shutter, thus giving loud warning of approach. In spite of this barrier, we felt safer in the next room which could be securely locked from the inside. How very securely, we did not as yet comprehend. With many stumblings and awkward shin bumpings, we carried a small cot into this room, which heretofore had not been used for sleeping. With great perseverance we coaxed our reluctant pet from the attractive stairway into our harbor of refuge, whereupon we securely locked the door. The room was small with sloping roof and unfinished rafters, but it seemed beautiful to me because it offered comparative safety; and I never remember holding greater admiration for a door than that one which closed us in, for it was a very strong, substantial appearing door, truly a noble door, thought I. Like a true martyr I lay on the floor, with mother on the cot next me. Her hand in mine seemed the only link between myself and safety, as we lay listening to those peculiar night noises which are most noticeable when one especially wishes not to hear them. How the wind sighed in the rain-laden trees; how drearily the waves washed upon the beach! Thud! My common sense counseled, “Merely the screen door banging.” My fear suggested, “An unwary footstep! Gradually, however, drowsiness possessed me, and away I slid into the realm of unconsciousness. In total disregard of our topsy-turvy world, the sun punctually rose in his usual splendor and wakened us early. The fear of the night seemed a nightmare, yet a remnant of it haunted me. Accordingly I waited for Mother to suggest the opening of the door. “Of course,” I assented, while she proceeded confidently. (A few seconds of fumbling with the key). “It won’t open!” “Won't open?” I cried in disgust, “Well just let me try my hand at it. After many vain attempts 1 gave up. “We are locked in! I remarked brightly, revealing a great truth. “Indeed, Mother replied dryly. “We must get out, I added in explanation. “True.” “In the first place, I said, thinking of a recent movie, “is there a rope in this room? I could tie it to the bed post and slide out the window.” In the first place there is no rope, and again, in the second place, there being only a cot in the room, how can there be a bedpost ?” Although I hated to give up this daring plan, I reluctantly agreed with her argument. However.' I was ready with another proposition: “Why not tie the bed clothes together and fasten them to the doorknob ?’’ “Nothing of the sort. retorted Mother. 26