Kouts High School - Kostang Yearbook (Kouts, IN)

Page 21 text:

1!) Oil! Gone! Forever gone mo more Shall High School light our way Along the rocks of education’s shore, When only truth can stray. Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Thro’ all the dark, desperate fight, lie, too, for light,—for strength to bear I's safely to the right. Is the hour of parting past ! Must our trembling feet, Waft us from K. II. S. at last To life’s still retreat ? Now farewell, we’ll sorrow banish, Aided still by memories bright, And tin smile with which they vanish Leaves in us a strengthening light. Memories not soon doomed to perish O’er the class of Ft’s way, May our sister classmen cherish Them, when far, far away. KATHFRINK DRAZFH, ’Id.

Page 20 text:

18 Pleasant hours are swiftly flying. Making haste to untrod ways. New days dawning, darkening, dying. Snatch away our care-free days. Tempus fugit. E’en our tears Fail to tempt him to delays. Thro’ history’s column he steers. Only Hope and Friendship stays. Tasks of duty and changing dreams Hear the same familiar strain, While music and plaintive themes Hush melodious thro’ our brain. School days fly, our youth depriving, Far removing fondest years. In return for truth and striving So banish all distracting fears. Science, art and language wended Teachers noble, grand, serene. Have our narrow realms extended Nearer shores before unseen. New tasks every day beset us. Thousand varied duties call, Summoning each to hope and trust. Face them boldly one and all. Could we come our minds pledged Youthful visions to content? Can the bird remain unfledged Ever in the foliage tent? Phoebus’ chariot often brightens As he nears the golden west. So we hope our mind enlightens All dark trivials to divest. Not with cloaks of inky blackness, Not with visage most deject, Nor our eyes with tears of bitterness, Can our inmost soul detect.

Page 22 text:

MUSIC. HAKESPEAKE says, “That man that hath no music in his soul nor is not moved by the concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. The motions of his spirit are as dull as night and his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted.” This seems a hard expression of Shakespeare, yet were we to can- vass the world over to find a man that has no music in himself, would be to search one out of ten thousand. There are but few mortals that are so hardened to all that is pure and holy, that some gentle strain sometime in their lives will not awaken a deep and holy feeling within them. Show me the person whose heart music can never move to emo- tion and I will show you a person upon whom the prayers of a father, the tears of a mother, or the caresses of a sister would have no more effect that the golden sunlight upon earth’s deepest cavern. Why weeps that convict in his dark stone cell? Ah, he is hearing a well remembered melody of his innocent childhood, or the song in which he and his sister, now dead perhaps, used to join voices, or the old solemn tune his father used to play on the instrument. For what is that weary exile in a far distant land sighing? For home? Ah, some popular air falls upon his ear, recalling the play-ground of his happy youth. Music, what is it? The first account of it on record was at the laying of the foundation of the earth. When the earth was made, its rocky spires thrown up, its forest harps all strung, its ocean organs tuned, the earth raised its everlasting anthem to the chorus of the skies. Music means not merely sounds adapted to particular emotions, a set of notes, a warbling voice, or a strain of melting sweetness; it means not only this, but more. A single word or expression may be full of music and stir the pulses to new and better emotions or lift the soul to higher joys. The harmony of a well rendered life is most graceful music. If only sounds were music, how many would be denied that delightful solace. Some there are that can not sing or even play an instrument, yet their natures are the finest harps from which unheard melodies are constantly ascending. Music makes up such a part of our nature that so completely surrounds us in this vocal world of ours that its influence begins at the cradle and ends only at the grave. It wel- comes at the opening morning of life and sobs softly at the close of out- earthly existence. The cradle song and the funeral dirge are the over- ture and the finale. The stem warrior yields to the influence of music, a blast of the trumpet and whole armies rush forth to die, a peal of the organ and countless numbers kneel in praver. Oh, the bewitching spell of music, what heart does not feel relief from sorrow at the chimes of merry bells; what heart does not feel a sense of sadness at the toll