Lowell High School - Lowellian Yearbook (Lowell, IN)

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Tage 14 The Lowell All For His Landlady For two hours they argued— “It’ll revolutionize the railroad industry. Give my invention a chance and this will be the most prosperous country on God ' s earth. The more prosperous the people are the more prosperous the railroads will be.” If that didn’t get him, nothing would. So thought the speaker, a young, good- looking person, who, although he looked as if he were used to being rebuffed by people wherever he went, yet was discouraged by this grim, cold-eyed man, whose features showed nothing of what was in his mind. He was regarding the model on the table before him, a model of a hill-leveling machine of revolutionary design, which the inventor claimed would make it so easy to build railroads that the country would be covered with them. More trains meant more shipping, more shipping meant increased prosperity for the railroads and the people. So persuasive was the young man, that his listener was finally persuaded that the engine was worth a trial, at the least. The young man left with a jubilant smile, or rather a grin, on his face. He had received a check for expenses and was to receive more later with which to build the machine which he represented could level a hill in a day. Now he could look his landlady in the face! “I tell you, it was an accident—a weak boiler plate—otherwise it would have worked.” “I have been informed by the engineers that the machine is a positive failure. Nothing can persuade me to give it another trial.” The speaker was a grim, cold-eyed man, with features which showed not a trace of what was in his mind, and he was talking to a young, good-looking person, whose face showed the hopelessness in his heart. Strange to relate, when the young man left, there was a smile on his face. For in his ears were ringing the words of the financier. “You’re a poor inventor, but you have a wonderful gift of gab. We need a new agent. You’re hired.” Now he needn’t be afraid of looking his landlady in the face! — . Maurice Robinson.

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for June 1922 Page 13 But there at yonder gate, A victim of cruel Fate, A cripple sits—one blind and deaf and dumb. How horrible a sight, How pitiful the plight Of him who seeks to live by selling gum! Grey walls, ’tis Life—think not To change men’s Fate or lot Sad though the drama be beneath thy grey! Be as the (sphinx and smile As Life’s great rank and file Move through thy portals every day. —Florence L. Wilson. The Arrival of the Fishing Boats In my young days, when the roving fisher boats chugged into the little cove to set their nets for fish, brother and I used to spend most of our time on the bay. At that time, we knew every broad-beam gray launch that rounded Green Point, a mile away, and at the same time knew most of the fishermen who owned them. We would wait until the coughing engine was silent and the anchor was cast. Then, being anxious to pay a visit to the swarthy-visaged men with heavy, grizzled beards and rough red hands, we would hoist the sail of our tiny, round-bottomed skiff and, using an oar for a rudder, skim out across the ruffled surface of the bay. They always made us welcome in their strange and guttural tongues, for we took them apples from the orchard and sometimes a glass of sugar and a loaf of home-made bread. In exchange for these they gave us curious souvenirs of their travels, dried star-fish of great size. The boat we knew best was called “Santa Cruz,” which the neighboring towns called “Biray.” The two fishermen, its owners, dark, powerful men, anchored just beyond our float in the smelt and fishing season, and we were fond of them. Sometimes they let us help them haul in the nets, and more than once brother and I have stood in huge hip boots many sizes too large for us, tugging at wet ropes heavy with seaweed, excitedly pulling at the drag net and watching for the first glint of splashing silver in the brown meshes which would tell us that the net was nearly to the beach and filled with fish. We were always sorry to see the “Santa Cruz” leave us, and it was always a day of rejoicing when we sighted the little gray boat chugging around the point, its bow and stern piled high with seine and drag nets. —Justino Villasenor.

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for June 1922 ■Page 1 5 Too J ate The last of the strains were played, The deep-bent head arose, The nervous hand was stayed From rend’ring something more. The fiddler raised his eyes, And gazed down at the throng. Arose from them full many sighs, But such were they that meant no wrong. The fiddler smiled. Two score years Had he worked and prayed for this night, Two score years, amid hopes and fears, Had he tried, without success’ light. He faltered, he swayed, his head was reeling now. The throng gasped, and arose From the many, many rows. But ’twas too late. The life Of the fiddler freely flowed. His success had come too late. —Philip Mathias. Now Spring is here! And I would I were as wild and free As Spring’s sweet self that shyly calls and beckons me. I want to climb the hills a-followed by my dog; I want to splash in streams, just jumping log to log; I want to amble slowly through a moist, damp glade Sniffing pungent scents of Springtime in its shade; I long to feel a keen-edged breeze caress my cheek And in my tingling ears sweet murmurs speak. Alone? My dog’s my pal, and whisp’ring breezes, too, And busy, cheerful birds—why these alone will do! Now Spring is here! Oh, how I long to be as free As that fair spirit calling earth to life, and me! —Florence Wilson.