Jackson High School - Osky Wow Yearbook (Jackson, OH)

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 Thr (Team of 1911 Our football team, It was a “scream,” The best that ever played. They won the first, Then got the thirst And many were dismayed. First Kingston High Was not as spry As they would have us think; They did their best. We did the rest: Their fate was black as ink. Now Ironton twice Fell thru the ice Before they stopped our boys. But on Turkey day— ’Tis sad to say— Thkik rooters made the noise. Did C. H. S. Get beat?—I guess; Two times they suffered defeat. They knew the game And were not to blame Because our stronger team beat. When Athens came, It was the same, Until the second quarter. And then they scored— Went by the board— Before Jackson got a starter. This is the last, And all the past, Of our victorious football season; But tho we are proud And sing praises loud, We have a very good reason. E. L. Jacobs, ’12,

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 ' ‘Wall, to my idea the bar wus killed by the strikin’ o’ some very hard object, cornin’ with considerable force,’ sez he. “Thin Randolph said, ‘Thin, Doctor, the bar wus killed by me, for wus I not the one that caused Silas Hopkins to fall, causin’ his head to strike the bar over the internal organs, causin’ instant death in the bar?” But Randolph wus voted down, an’ I wus said to be the one as killed the bar. “My old woman said whin I thought I wus in heaven, whin I lit on thot bar wus as near as I’d ever git to thar. “Yis, that’s the only bar I ever killed, Zeb—an’ would you mind cuttin’ off a plug o’ terbaccy? I’m nigh out.” H. J., ’15. X X X Sty? “dprilfouf rJMME-l:15p.m„ Friday, March 15.’12. Place—Room I, Jackson High School. “Ancestor”, deliberately pronounced Mr. Kinnison. “Cowsy” grinned, shifted his feet, scratched his head, and finally spelled: “A-N-C-E-S-T-O-R.” And that long-to-be-remembered fray, the Junior-Senior Spelling Match, was on. The prevalence of bad spelling among these two classes had caused the Faculty to instill into minds of the Juniors, the idea (but how those Juniors regret it now!) of challenging the Seniors to a spelling contest. Thus our opening scene. The next few after the start stood up bravely under fire but when it came to Dave Davis, he found his goat concealed in “administration” and went down--the first casualty of the conflict. The next shot to have effect lodged a few moments later in “Tater” Wartenbee, who i-uc-cumbed to the terrors of “adjectival” and went to join Dave. When the first volley was over six of the seventy engaged were out of the fight. Words now flew thick and fast, finding victims among both Juniors and Seniors. But the Juniors fell faster and tho their numbers had been a third greater than the Seniors’ at the start, the opposing forces were soon equal. Eben Jones slipped on an “isotherm” and “oxygen’’ overwhelmed “Cowsy” Morgan. “Phrase” was “fraze” for Hazel Jacobs and other horribly original spellings were produced, as (for example) when I. T. Branson used an “ax” on “accelerate.” So the contest went until, when there was about fifteen survivors on each side, Mr. Kinnison exausted his small arms ammunition and opened fire with his heavy artillery masked behind the covers of Reed’s speller and other orthographical works. Sib Powell, Effa Nickell, Lib Jones, Bill Michael, Earl Peters, Erie Jacobs, Warren Schellenger, and others who had stood gallantly before, now all went down under this frightful hail of words. Louise DeLay’s protests that it wasn’t fair were all in vain and the inexorable fire went on. Everett Morgan, “Happy” Ervin, Nettie Thomas and other Juniors were determined to fight it out to the last ditch, but the fates decreed against them and they dropped out one by one, Nettie Thomas choking on a “leathery” one long after the rest had fallen. And so the Seniors were left in posseasion of the field with ten members, three boys and seven girls— standing, to gloat over the ignominiously defeated Juniors. “By the Osky Wow’s” Correspondent at the front. Twenty-three

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(Hlj? i rarah little lad, swarthy i;of skin, bare of foot, was wending his way through a narrow street, wedged in by high stone walls. On one shoulder he balanced a water jug, and he walked with that grace characteristic of the water carriers. His dark eyes peered from beneath long lashes, and he carefully observed his surroundings, as he passed along. Becoming fatigued, he stopped for a moment’s rest, carefully keeping out of the reach of the sun’s oppressive rays. What little breeze circulated was heavily laden with ill-smelling odors, which seemed to ooze through the walls themselves. The air was dense and stagnant; the street, silent and still. It was noon-tide in an Egyptian city. The lad was Dedi, the Egyptian, who wended his way onward until he came to an open spot, in the midst of which was a well. Having filled his jug with the clear water, the boy sat down again to rest. As he gazed off to the right, he could see the place commonly called the “Dead-land,” that is, the home of the lepers. Suddenly he saw approaching the spot wnere he sat, a man,—a man of strong physique, but with the imprint of death upon him. He was a leper. He was followed by a tumultuous crowd composed of persons fearful, yet unwilling that he should live in their midst; and as he paused at the well near Dedi, a small stone struck him; driven for ward, he passed over that terrible threshold into the leprous city,—he was to be no longer one of the world, but was to die that torturing, lingering death, which no earthly remedy had the power to stay. No one in the crowd noticed him drop a small green scarab in the sand, as he paused. Neither was he aware himself that it had been dropped, for his mind was too full of the horrible facts that now governed his life; and as he hastened his footsteps to evade the avenging crowd, there was no wonder that he did not notice the loss of this one sacred relic of his. Dedi sat by the well and thought. He wriggled his bare toes in the sand, and built air castles, concerning his manhood. He would be wealthy, would have servants to wait upon him, and his wife—a vision of lovliness—should have all that her heart desired. His children should play all the day, as he had never had the opportunity of doing. He would make a visit to that great America he had read of, and would there make his future home. During his musing, his piercing eyes discerned a small green object lying in the sand. It was something odd, and held a peculiar charm for this lad. It lay there upon his hand, a thing of wonderful workmanship, a small green beetle, perfectly modeled, of stone. He admired it and played with it, until he realized that enough time had been spent loitering, so he began his journey back home, leaving the place deserted except for the beating rays of the tireless sun in the heavens. Twelve years later, a part of Dedi’s day dream came true. He was carried by a great ocean steamer from bis Egyptian home to New York City. When he stepped upon the docks his heart swelled, as he wondered what his future life would be. Dedi was young, good looking and fairly intelligent, and soon he became acquainted with a number of his own countrymen, living in a certain part of the city. He earned a respectable living by selling fruits and relics, which he obtained from his own country. It was not long before he acquired a broken form of the English language. Once on his daily rounds he made the acquaintance of a young Spanish girl, Martina by name, and often after this he spent his leisure moments in talking to this maiden. He learned that she was alone like himself, and this was a bond between them. Drawn together by this common lack of sympathy from the outside world, and by the hunger for love and companionship, they fin- Twent y-five