Humboldt High School - Life Yearbook (St Paul, MN)

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Anticipating a Catch BY HAROLD ROUSSOPOULOS OT long ago I went trout fishing with a friend of mine. When we reached the stream where we were to fish my friend leisurely proceeded to put his rod together, at the same time watching the water to see what kind of in- sects the trout were taking. He saw a yellow fly light on the water, and instantly a trout snapped it up. Selecting from his generous collection, a fly resembling the one that lit on the water, he started fishing. On the third cast he placed the fly in the ripple made by a large rock in the mid- dle of the stream. The fly settled on the water in a life-like manner and started fioating down stream. Suddenly there was a rosette of circles on the surface of the water, and the fly disappeared in the very center of it, gobbled down by a big fish. It was a game fish and put up a strong fight. It tried every trick, from leaping in the air and shaking, to winding the line around tree roots and rocks, but to no avail. With every rush of the fish and every whir of the reel, my heart rose to my throat. The quick wrist and limber rod of my friend soon proved too much for the fish, however, and it was brought to the net. It was a two-pound charr. Speaking of charrs, I would like to try to correct a common error. The fish most sought after in America is the fish com- monly called the 'fBrook Trout. To call this fish a trout is an error. It is a charr. It is the only charr in America. The difference between a trout and a charr is in the arrangement of the teeth. The charr has no teeth in the upper part of the mouth, while the trout has teeth in both the upper and lower parts. This one dif- ference is the main point of distinction. My only reason for mentioning the dif- ference between the trout and the charr is that many American sportsmen who do not know the difference, after reading re- ports and stories of the English charrs, bemoan the fact that there are none in our streams. .We have plenty, only they do not know it. Little finny warrior of the streams, may God give you and your progeny the strength and the cunning to live and pros- per forever! A Lone Dahlia ln our garden bare stands a dahlia Majestically lifting its face To the stars. ' From amid the roots and leaves, Shines the gorgeous red which it displays- The one bright spot, In a garden Of musty brown and grays. Soon it will freezeg 'Twill lower its head and sink slowly away To sleep. At the foot of the towering trees. Page Six Juliet Stiefel.

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Fools' Rush By JoHN WENTZ 0' AY, 1et's can the chatter: some- body might hear us. Can't be too careful, you know. Zavoli and Sokel were talking over last night's bump-off, the daring murder of a prominent gang leader who had literally ruled the city. Zavoli had been the chief executor in the bloody deed, skillfully manipulating the machine gun against the helpless and unguarded victim. No one had witnessed the crime closely, and the big, black sedan had soon lost itself from pursuers in the dense traffic of the down- town. And now the two companions, drunk with their success, had not been able to resist the temptation to come out of their hole to enjoy the warm, summer evening. Not long after they had seated them- selves on a park bench, an old man shuf- fled noiselessly up the path and sat down on a bush-screened bench almost directly behind them. Zavoli and Sokel kept on talking, soothing their consciences by tell- ing each other that their victim had killed many in his time, too, while the old man quietly read his tattered third-hand news- paper. The old gentleman sat there, un- seen, during most of their conversation, but some little noise he made with his feet finally brought Zavoli to his senses, and he jumped up and went around the bench to the old man. Listen, began Zavoli, 'Awe know what you heard, and we ain't got time to fool with you: so make up your mind. Take this money and shut up, or else-. And he patted his bulging coat pocket sig- nificantly. The man looked bewildered, sputtered something about leaving, and tried to rise, but they pushed him to his seat. UTake it or leave it. 'AGentlemen, really. I can't-. A'Don't flatter us, growled Zavoli, pok- ing his gun into the man's ribs. Take it or leave it. Be careful with that gun, the man pleaded. 'AReally, I don't know what it's all about. UNO? Zavoli's tone was hard, merci- less. What was you sittin' there for if you didn't want to hear what we said? Let me explain, please. Give it to him, advised Sokel. It makes me nervous to wait around: some- body might come by. HO. K. He asked for it. Zavoli's automatic spoke twice, three, four times, and was about to speak a fifth when a squad car pulled slowly around the corner and then swung suddenly to the curb. The two men fled, with the sur- prised police in full pursuit. Caught finally, Zavoli confessed under high pressure to the murder of the old man. I-Ie told his story to the police: -and so when I seen him sittin' there, hearing every word we said, I ofered him plenty to keep still, but the old fool just shook his head kinda foolish, calls us 'gentlemen' and other names, and says no, he really can't somethin' or other, so I had to shoot him. Then your dam' squad car rolls peaceful like around the corner. Yeah, Kinda tough about the old gent though. UAW, he practically asked for it. I-Ie'd 'a died in a few years anyway. 'ASure, I know. But I meankhe was stone deaf. Page F ive

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As We Like It fThe After-effects of Reading Lamb's Roast Pig Q Un Potato Soup HE French may have their bouillon and consornme, But neither of these soups, though their names are imposing, has the rare distinction of potato soup, as anyone who knows his Greek history will tell you. Potato soup is not a soup of shallow background. Its high descent is apparent at one's first acquaintance with its smooth, slightly onionized texture. Nor am I the first notable to acclaim its virtues. Plato's Greek History will bear me out in my opinion. Demosthenes' pre- vious public speeches were almost obscured one afternoon in the Roman Forum when he gave his imrnortal Discourse on Po- tato Soup. Included in the work of Homer are The Iliad and The Odyssey, but his Essay on Potato Soup, the opening sen- tence of which begins, as you know, Tell of Potato Soup, O Muse, overshadows his other efforts. No other soup has such an authentic and distinguished background. While we can not declare surely its exact origin, we do know that Eve, when she and Adam were forced to desert the Garden of Eden, carried in her fig leaves the precious po- tato soup recipe. Now, in its making, do not insult its illustrious immortality by adding to it chopped parsley. No other vegetable but fresh, young onion, direct from the gar- den, will give its smooth texture the fill? flavor its background warrants. The potatoes themselves must be young and delicate-the kind known as New Potatoes. These innocent, young sprouts must be thoroughly mashed and lubricated with rich, fresh cream. The consumer of this priceless dish should be allowed to dash in the salt and pepper himself so that the taste of the soup will not be impaired by too much, or possibly too little spice. And now for a little toast to the most delightful of modern foods-a rhyme com- posed by Shakespeare in one of his strong- er moments. l'Potato Soup, thou aromatic thing! Thou temptor of palates, of thee I sing! Jean Horton. l,,li. - My Passion LIVES are my secret passion. I had to eat seven before I liked them, but every seven eaten since has increased my lust for them, Cake, pie, candy, and fruits of all sorts are pleasant, but olives make me happier than any of these. I call them my secret passion because when I'm alone I enjoy them most. I cannot say whether it's the olive itself or the suck- ing of the stone which is the best. Though olives cannot be enjoyed in company, yet that's where I usually get them. In public, I must confine my ap- petite to one, two, three, or possible four, and that's not enough for me. How much candy I eat is unnoticed because there is no evidence, but with olives there are al- ways the telltale pits trimming the edge of my plate. Moreover, I must take them in my fingers daintily, nibble a small piece, and be altogether too mannerly to satisfy my gigantic taste. Olives are best when I can take two or three and shove them in my mouth at the same time, thus I get the full benefit of this delicious viand. I like to sit on a chair with a bottle of olives in front of me, wait till my mouth waters so much I can taste them, and then eat of the fruit until some one of my shocked parents spies me, Finally, olives are best in their original form, not stuffed or tampered with. If olives are stuffed, they are not olives but stuffing. As for the taste of olives it is in- describable, elusive-the cause of my secret passion. Charles E. Phelps. Page Seven