Lowell High School - Lowellian Yearbook (Lowell, IN)

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iiKiiMllllllilillillllllUIIIIIIIIHiillllMIliillllllllilllMIIIIIIIIIUIIIItllllUllllllliMilllllllllllHIIIIHIIIIIIIinilNIINIIIIllllillllllllllllllllillililillllllllllllllllllMIIIHIIIIIIillllllllllllllllfllllllinill «.OQ)CUian iiiiiMiiiillllililllllllltllllllilllllllllllllllUillllllllllllllllllllllllllililllllllllllHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIlMlllliMMIIIIIliUlllUIIIIIIIUMHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIUIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIilllllltltlllllllli “Mentors! ' ’ Seniors! so dignified and yet jolly, Some are called Jim and some are called Polly. Working so hard, all honorable and true, For everyone is hoping to get thru: Once they were Freshmen so bashful and green. Their queer mistakes they hoped would pass unseen. Then they were silly Sophomores, quite too bold, Wishing all power in their big hands to hold. But when they changed from Sophs to Juniors gay, They thought that they had better change their way; And so they worked and Seniors all became, Their lives are now glorified with fame. And thru’ the future years of their great life They all will bear the honor of that strife. —DELLA WAGIN ’17 1917 IIlUllllllllllltlllllltllllliHII llllllllllHIlHIIIIlllIIlhllUHIIIIIUItl

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iiiiii iiiiUiiiw iiiimmuiiiimiiiiii!i:Mii»iiiuiu.iiiiiiiiiiiii(nii iitiiiui:iiiiiiiiii;iiii iiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii}iiiiiiiiiHiiH;iiiiiii«iiiiiiii(iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiui!iiiitiiliiill! x.atumian iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuii:niiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!:iiiiiiiuiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiuii iiHii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiui!i!!i!iiiiiiiiiii(jii.iiliiiililiui!itiiiiiiiiiiliii;iiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiiri VLi jc Eetncarnatton of Class! ’17 It seems 1 spent years sleeping, feeling in a way that the seasons were coming and going, knowing best when the warm sunshine wrapped me in a blanket of warmth, to sleep and sleep on until I should reach the stage of awakening. In a whis¬ per it came to me, “Awake, thou art the spirit of the class of nineteen-seventeen.” Vaguely, at first I understood, then I knew and remembered—the fire—the terror—then oblivion. But now, such a new and strange world and so beautiful. Just like fairyland. Beneath me I could see the great rolling clouds. I wondered at this for under my feet was a carpet of gold. I reached down to touch it and found it nothing. Just the transparent nothingness of color. I tried to feel my own hand, that too was like the carpet of gold. A nothingness of color. I tried to move, the impulse was followed strangely. Light as air I floated and in this way all things were done. Then came sound. The beauty of it was almost appalling; I floated to it. Upon a tree of gold was perched a bird. A bird of Para¬ dise. “Nellie,” I whispered, for I was scarcely able to speak, “is it you?” And indeed it was our sweet whistler, Nellie Brooks. “Listen,” she said, don’t you hear?” Too surprised to answer, 1 waited. From what seemed to be a brook ot the purest silver that laughed just for pure joy, there arose a water-nymph and with her came the laughter too. It was Della Wagin. In her un¬ usual provoking way, she turned and addressed something in the water, “No Milton McKay you cannot come out. A fish you are and must always be. ‘But see,’ Max is luckier than you; he being a mud-turtle with four legs can go almost anyw r here.” “Aren’t there any angels here?” I asked. Almost at once one came. It was Lillian Goddard. Beau¬ tiful, but for an angel she looked troubled. “Won’t you see what is hanging to my shirt,” she said. I looked and it was Verne Lloyd. “Where is Rubie Hayhurst and Lucile Brownell?” I asked. “Why don’t you know,” Lillian answered, they are fire¬ flies and Ed Minninger keeps them busy lighting his pipe.” A strange and beautiful world it was. There were ani¬ mals too, I saw one lonely goat. In sympathy I tried to touch him. “Oh, never mind,” he said, “a goat’s a goat now and always.” And I know it was Seth Little. I saw them spinning from a mist of gold, weaving joy and love, just as always—Elsie McConnell and Violet Hoevet. Then . ........iiiiiiiiii:iiiiiiii::tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiminiiiiii...mini 1917 iiiiiiiiiiuiiiii:iiiiiii:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii; ' iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!iiiiiiiini

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ui immnmiMUHHiiiiiimHniHiHiuuiiimnniii.. .oumuan iiiiiiiiiiiiHtiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii ' iiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiaiuii another came with threads of truth to be added to the things worth while. It was Thelma Hill. Still farther I went to the edge of an enchanted wood. A little wood page met me. In red and gold I recognized Floyd Vinnedge. He told me the story of the enchanted wood. Two owls, Herbert Korth and Dilwyn Nicholas sat outside the window of the beautiful princess, Mabelle Feeley, continually asking “Who?” She loved one of them but not being able to dis¬ tinguish one from the other in their present state, she was in a great dilemma. Hastening over a path that seemed strewn with pink pearls on which a touch of sunlight fell, I exclaimed, “What mystery are you ?” “We are the pathway of tears” came the voice of Hilda Dahl. I came to a great garden with a hedge as green as the bright¬ est emerald. Bethel Haskell was caring for the flowers. “See,” she said, pointing to a dark red rose, “this is Vera Bess, and this tall lily is Elizabeth Miller. Each day they be¬ come sweeter and in time they will develop their own person¬ alities and I thought it quite a wonderful garden. A little toad was hopping about catching bugs among the flowers. “Be careful, Clayton Davis,” Bethel spoke to the toad, “be careful don’t hop on the ladies branches.” A humming bird perched itself upon the garden hedge and winked mischievously at me. “Why, Natalie Trump is that you?” I cried. With a little flutter it flew about my head and hummed and the tune was so like one of our old high school songs that even the flowers nodded in unison. Back to the little brook from whence I came, 1 saw within it the little bodies that I knew contained human minds, yet for some reason they must work out their own reincarnation. I reached again the golden tree and heard the voices of Lucile Miller, Harriett Clark and Ettie Lee, but I could not see them. “Where are you girls, I would like so much to see you,” I called to them. Immediately, the great golden tree glowed and brightened like the sun. When the colors showed transparent I saw them each with the same old smile and I knew they were keeping the tree of life shining. What a wonderful day ! I, the spirit of the class of 1917, standing beneath the tree of life, had solved the problem of the ages. It was this-. “As ye give so shall ye receive.” iJiiiiiiHiiiiiiiitiimiiiiiiMumiiiiiiiiitiuiiiimiiiimuiiiuiu iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiuuiiniuiiimiimiiuiiiiniiiiiitniiiiniiiiiiiiuiiiimiiiiiin 1917 iMti iiitiitiiiiiiiiiiuMii niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiittuitiitiiiiiiiiitiitiiiiitiiiiiiiiii4ti(iiiiiiiiti;iiitisiii!nmiiuiiiii:iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiuiiiiiiitiiiiiiitiiitiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiif::mm Tn