Jacksonville High School - Crimson J Yearbook (Jacksonville, IL)

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go get a loaf of bread, and fetch in some kindling. Very reluctantly I arose to do her bidding. My poor tired heart seemed very-heavy. “Very well. But it wasn’t “Very well.” How I hated that long walk in the cold and the awful stooping for the chips. What if my ideal should suddenly peek around the corner? Would he die of mortification seeing me at such a menial task, or would he say, softly: “Lizzy Ann, Lizzy Ann, Wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not fetch kindling. Or yet feed the swine. But sit by my grate fire And read me a book. While lunch in the kitchen’s Prepared by the cook.” But how could these comforting words solace with the cruel north wind whistling around the corner instead of my gallant one? Then another echo would float out on the breeze, “Lizzie Ann, be you euttin' down a tree for that kindling?” No, mother. I was picking up chips.” 1 he next day at school was one, big, continuous mistake; no lessons, but a vast radiance, out of which 1 jumped into the dull present when my name was called by the pedagogue. I don’t know.” And then would come that awful, awful answer: “Live demerits for inattention!” How could she designate such blissful moments as inattention? How could she? 1 he day would slowly drag by. My chum would whisper: “ Lisbeth, John Henry gave me this note for you. He wants to know if he can walk home from school with you this evening.” John Henry, indeed! My indignant young heart swelled with disgust. Why should he break in upon my reveries? But such was life. I am almost ready to conclude this sorrowful tale. My pride has had a fall. One week ago, I was sent to the city for some brown alpaca. My hopes fell when I found my second best dress was to be brown instead of blue serge with red emblems. I boarded the street car, and sat listlessly by the window waiting for my corner. Suddenly I heard a nasal twang in my ear: “ Picket, miss. Phis hain’t no spiritualists’ meeting.” I felt my poor embarrassed cheeks flush with shame. But horrors! there he stood!!! I felt my face go white, and then began a wild leaping around the locality wherein dwells my heart. There he stood, alive and by my side! Who,” did you say? Why, my ideal, my dream man, my own fireside comforter, the man who peeked at me when I was picking up chips. There he was—the smile, the dimples, the eyes, the hair, the shoulders, AND the brass buttons and twang. I handed him a coin, only to hear him say, disgustedly: I don’t want no bread check. Chee, but you’re absent minded, just like my wife.” I rectified my mistake, and he w-as gone, shoulders and all. Oh, girls, isn’t it awful to have your ideal destroyed? 9

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“Her little shoe!” she cried with a moan. “Oh, hurry! hurry! We shall find her— ------. Oh, no; not that. But hurry! But the lady! On and ever up she sped, and with one magnificent leap reached the pinnacle. She threw her splendid furs to the ground and reached out her ivory arms to the deadly blue vapors that stood ready to grasp her. She fell like a swaying lily, a smile on her glowing lips, calling aloud, “This is happiness!” . Thus they found her, whiter and colder than the snow. The little Sacronessa covered the still figure with a thick sable blanket and dropped by her side in tears. They bore her, with deepest solemnity and adoration, tenderly away to her father in his castle. Kissing the cold hands once more, he poured out his grief to her: “Oh, fairest Clothilde, it was happiness that thou sought! But, daughter, it was the death of ours. We, who live to mourn for you. hope some day to share that fleet-ing joy which you lost and won.” THE EVOLUTION OF A GIRL’S IDEAL Long ago, in the dim ages of my childhood I had an ideal. Yes, and that ideal was a man—a man, I say. Oh, he loomed up with that majestic splendor which characterizes the perfect man; the one man. Don’t tell me that girls do not consider this inevitable question. The shrinking maiden, with tender brown eyes, cherishes him and puts him away in her heart, while her frolicsome sister does not hesitate to talk and dream of him in the presence of her most chummy friends. The brown-eyed maiden may secretly envy this outspoken lass, but she retains her idealistic views and thinks of them always. Yes; I had an ideal, and it was ever present. Had I seen him? No, but he was marvelous. Big? Oh, perfectly immense, with dreamy grey eyes and shoulders, the envy of all men in general. Hair? Oh, a rich chestnut brown, with glints of gold in it, and he had a dimple in each cheek. He wasn’t effeminate. He was not!!! A man can have dimples and not look like a woman. T hey went with the smile. And oh, that smile! In the hazy twilight, I used to sit before the grate fire in those cold, grey evenings of my girlhood days and see him smiling at me from the glowing embers. The coals seemed to frame themselves into his face and laugh at me in the shadowy room. Dreams? Yes; they were dreams, but such beautiful dreams. I loved to prop my foolish head on my hands and look at this dream man out of half-closed eyes. I could talk to him then and tell him my troubles. But suddenly, out of the darkness, a voice would proceed from the kitchen as follows: “Elizabeth Ann, rouse yourself. You’ve been sitting there staring at that fire for one solid hour. It would take the “Knell of Doom or the “T rumpet of Gabriel” to make an impression on your dull brain. Here I am, breaking my back over this ironing board. Set the table, feed the pigs, 8

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fi THE CONTRIBUTOR’S CLUB THE SUBSCRIPTION CONTEST Why. hello, Helen. Still busy? I only stopped in for a minute to tell you how things are going. Talk about it! t hose classes are doing some scrambling. The eighth graders are in on it, too. I’ve done some tall scampering since I saw you last. Went to a bunch of alumni and got the biggest batch of subscriptions. Sure, they wanted to take it. It kept me busy writing out receipts. Oh, I do hope our class gets the prize. We need the money for the junior-senior party. We want to have a peach of a one. Those insolent seniors imagine that we have no “pep”. They are already saying that they expect to be fed on soda crackers and lemonade. Huh, I guess we ll show ’em. 1 don’t know how much it will take for eats, etc., but the prize will help out. Where have I been, did you say? Everywhere, absolutely everywhere. I hustled around among the members of the class and got fifteen or twenty. They certainly are handing over their money. Then I went to several business men, and they were delighted to help the High School. One of them said to me: “Miss Smithson, why am I paying taxes if not to support your school and paper in every way possible? I have a boy that will be up there with you some day and I am proud of the example you are setting him. I hope he will be as enthusiastic as the rest of you!” And I know he will be, too. You know him—Gilbert Blank. He's just full of life, and is planning to play foot ball just as soon as he gets out of the eighth grade. I met him the other day, and he said: “Did dad subscribe for the paper?” I said, yes; and he said: Bully! Wait till I get up there, and I’ll be artist.” I told him that we were sadly in need of one, but he dashed my hopes to the ground by saying he couldn’t draw a crooked line. Poor chap! I can beat that. But here I’m wandering away from my subject again. 1 oughtn’t to take so much time, but I thought you’d like to know what we are doing. Can’t you come up and visit Friday morning? It’s Students’ Day, and we are going to have a ’thuse meeting. Goodby; I must hurry back and turn in my subscription money. Ta! Ta! THE TRAINING TABLE Characters—Jacqueminotta Westerville; Archibald Reginald Pope; Bernstein, butler. Time—Present. (Curtain rises at 8:00 P. M., and finds the audience listening and looking.) The Action Begins. Butler (rushing down the dimly lighted 10