Mechanic Arts High School - M Yearbook (St Paul, MN)

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8 THE H M - JUNE,gi926 The forest--the trees were strangely tall -their twisted, knotted arms and fingers seemed writhing in the 'frosted air. How weird and different everything looked and how faint was the path! Where was the path? In the forest it had disappeared. The snow had made huge drifts against the trees. No one used the path through the forest except occasional hunters and trappers, and since last night's heavy snow it had vanish- ed. For a moment Dmitri was at a loss, but hope came and he knew that all he must do was to go straight and soon he would be through these dark woods. The moon shed a pale, ghostly light through the trees and cast long, black shadows on the glittering snow. The air was clear and crisp and the moon high now. Dmitri was cold and hungry: his baby heart was a bit lonely, and his fingers and toes were strangely numb as were his ears and the tip of his nose. His cheeks stung, but not once did courage fail him, The lights of his village seemed always before him, just a short way to go now. What a lonely, wailing sound the wind made through the trees! Was it the wind? Strange that the wind could howl so- Dmitri won- dered if the wind was tired, too-surely not as tired as he was: his feet were so heavy and his eyes smarted so. The shadows were so black-so cold. The trees towered high above as though they would clutch the cold fire of the moon in their frosty fingers. How far away the stars were! Would he never see the lights of his village? But what is that dull'glow ahead? Surely not the vil- lage! Dmitri, with a fearing hope, ran for- ward. His weary, little legs tripped over a gnarled tree root and he fell, gasping, to the snowy ground, a few feet in front of the crimson embers of a trapper's fire. Warmth, -but what an effort it was to rise and go close to the glowing remnants of the lonely ire: that strange howling: it seemed closer now, Snow was beginning to fall, quietly and slowly. Dmitri drew very close to the warm, red embers and put out his stiff, lit- tle hands to the fading gleam. Warmth! The fires and lights of his village would be much warmer, but meanwhile how good it was to be here. The circle of black trees threw a dusky cloak across the dying em- bers, Far above the cold moon half cov- ered now by a cloud-it looked broken- had the trees, perhaps finally clutched a piece of it? Why didn't that weird howling cease? The stars were dimmed now by wisps of clouds like passing spirits. And the red embers were a long, thin plume of smoke like a pale column reaching far into the dark sky. The snow was falling faster now, big, soft crystals, soft and white like his bed. Per- haps they were white feathers for a bed! There, one big flake fell on his drooping eye- lid. Dmitri was too tired to brush it away. lt melted and lay like a huge tear on his cheek. The icy fingers of the cold stroked his face: his mother's touch was much warmer. That eerie howling seemed to come from the trees. Dmitri peered into their depths. Green and yellow fire seemed to peer back at him like eyes-two and two like eyes-eyes and the howling-not eyes but lights-the lights of his village. How warm everything was! Was that his cap slipping from his nodding head or was it his mother's hand caressing his cheek? He called one, Mother! A sigh answer- ered him and then the howling. He was so tired! The snow was soft and his eyelids were heavy. Sleep-sleep and there were the lights of the village, there in the dark. Or were they eyes? Sleep came-and with sleep a quiet smile on Dmitri's childish face. The fire faded and died, crushed by the black shadows of the trees. Only a long, thin column of white smoke drifted upwards through the snow-filled air. And the wind wailed and sobbed at the strange howling that filled the night-the night of Christmas. allied fv, P t

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u yr O me terms. TDH rm me M g Ml Dmitrils Homecoming By LoRELL SHUGART OBShlonely, broken sobs made the freezing Russian night seem more cruel and cold. And the thoughts which aroused the sobs were these: Ah, the bitterness of it alll Tomorrow night will be Christmas Eve. How joyous will be my mother and father and my two little sisters, happy even without me in the glad anticipation of the morning! Little eleven-year-old Dmitri only two months before had been apprenticed to the old man in whose cabin he was now sup- posed to be asleep. He had been hired out so that through his aid a tiny stream of money would let his small sisters go to school in the little village where he longed so to be, The village, so many long Rus- sian miles away-Dmitri could imagine the lights of it gleaming at him across the snowy miles-was so warm and friendly, His sobs grew heavier and more broken. Oh, how he loved the village and the kind people it shel- tered! He was so alone, so friendlessl Christmas Eve would be bitterly sad- But yet-the village could not be so very far away. Hope, a tiny flame, arose in Dmitri's lonely, childish breast and quieted his sobs. If he hurriedg if he started now, now, before the tired sun was completely hiddenl Dmitri rubbed a hole in the frost of the win- dow pane and looked out. The sun had only laid his chin on the gray wood. He would hurry to put on his heavy jacket and his high boots and with his fur cap and gloves surely he would not be cold. Action followed thought and Dmitri clambered into his clothes. He was going to walk to his beloved village. He knew the way. He had come before with his father in the spring time to visit the old man who now thought him so sound asleep. He must take the path that led across the now frozen lake and enter the dim forest. Once the forest was passed only a short, short distance separated him from the longed- for village. ' Dmitri crept quietly through the warm rooms of the little cabin to the heavy door. There was a slight creaking of bolts, and the cold snow and icy air were his only com- panions. Filled with the exuberance of extreme youth, he trotted forth gaily, almost run- ning at first in his eagerness. Even the frosty winds seemed to carry a message of cheer in each biting blast. On, on, he went across the tangled frozen underbrush, his short legs stumbling through drifts and broken stubble. His breath was coming harder now and he stumbled more often: once he almost fell, but there just ahead was the gleaming ice-clad lake. It would be easier going across the lake, The sun had died nowg only a faintly rosy glow lingered beyond the horizon of dark trees, a rosy glow like the blood of a slain hero. The lake was frigid and stiff in its slip- pery coat. Dmitri wondered if the sun could ever be warm again, warm enough to melt this chilling armour of the lake, His round, red cheeks smarted from the blasts of the deceitful wind, that but a short time past had seemed so friendly. The crimson glow of the sun was quite gone now: everything was dimly, coldly blue. A pale, frozen moon gleamed far above and a few lonely stars shivered in the far sky. Dmitri looked at them and thought of the lights of his vil- lage which would be so warm and friendly after the distant shivering of the stars, How glad everyone would be to see him even though he had run awayl He could almost feel the warmth of his mother's caress. He must not stop to thinkg the time was too short. How bitter cold it wasl It seemed as though he had walked hundreds of miles. The lake border was near now and then beyond was the black forest, so dark and mysterious looking. How Dmitri loved it in the summer, with the tall, strong trees and the tiny, sturdy flowers! Once in the sum- mer he had seen a wolf, a mangy, ragged- looking creature. They were more plenti- ful nowg it was said they went in hungry packs. Dmitri couldn't blame them for be- ing hungry in all this coldg he too, was hungry. In his hurry he had forgotten to take anything to eat. How cold his fingers were! The stars were more plentiful now, but their frosty gleaming made the cold seem more intense. The round moon was like an icy mirror,

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JUNE,g1926g g g M 9 Bull Fighting A True Story By SYDNEY GADOW experience in bull fighting This at tempt took place in a little Wisconsin town, Medford, and engendered in my heart a lasting hatred and an imperish- able contempt for bulls. Lorenzo-his real name is Fritz and he is as German as Limburger, but We simply must have our bull-fighting atmosphere- Lorenzo and I had to go to the stockyards and lead a bull back home. The stockyards were three miles away and lay on the oppo- site side of town. We bought a ring for the bull at a local store, and swaggered along, we two innocent toreadors, to the stock- yards. There we found the bull. He was a Holstein-I hate that breed-had a pedi- gree a mile long, and was, all in all, a beau- tiful animal-to look at. Lorenzo called to the attendant and the three of us attempted to make friends with the bull. The bull was singularly self-cen- tered. We drew lots to see who should put the ring in the bull's nose. I drew the longer straw and, believe me, I felt like a lamb being led to the sacrifice. In the ortho- dox Spanish bull-fight there are gentlemen called banderilleros whose job it is to stick eight little spears about three feet long, into the bull's neck. I was banderillero but alasl I had only the one little sharp-pronged ring. I stepped into the corral,-pardon me, the bull ring-and warily approached the ani- mal. In a few simple, expressive, American phrases, Lorenzo told me I was crazy. I halted. I The relief-torreros, Lorenzo and the stock- yard's man, each took a rope, tied them in running nooses, and slipped them over the animal's head. I went forward, with a pair of weak knees, a palpitating heart, and a heaving chest, also the aforementioned ring. The bull, with a diabolical look of cunning awaited me. Unused to this sort of petting party he made a lunge at me. The torreros tightened the ropes: I went nearer, the ring was open, I forced it into his nose. The blood spurted, the bull gave a mighty lurch, I flew to the top of the fence, the bull was free. A SHALL attempt to tell of my' first Lorenzo yelled, I laughed shakily, the pop-eyed bull leaned half-strangled, against the fence, and that part of the bull-fight was over. Where were the Bravos the Vivo el torreros that should have rung in my ears? Was that all there was to it? I should say not! We had to lead the darned animal home. I saw to it that Lorenzo led him, for I thought I had done my share. I found out what the term bull-headed means. The bull's nose was sore, he was angry, he was stubborn, he didn't want to walk- he didn't walk. We tried everything. Switches, beatings, cajoling had no effect. Finally the attend- ant hit upon the brilliant idea of twisting the animal's tail. A bellow and the creature was off. A half a block and he stopped dead. Baleful were the looks cast from wicked, black eyes, sulphurous the snorts from his nose, diabolic, no doubt, his inmost thoughts. Another twist and another half a block! The people on the streets stopped, turned, stared, laughed, and called at us. The spurts grew shorter, the stops longer, the twists more frequent. The sun sank lower in the sky, our hearts grew heavier, my wrist ached, for it was I who had to twist the tail. We trotted, stopped, panted, gasped, hop- ed, despaired, and swore alternately, consec- utively, and indiscriminately. We went through town, a matter of six or eight blocks: through the most deserted district we crossed the river, Fl Rio Dolor. I now had to twist the bull's tail two or three times. Finally he stopped. I twisted the tail four times. At each twist my contempt for bulls grew. The fifth time I gave so mighty a twist that the bull rolled over on his back. A vast relief surged through my soul. The thing had broken its neck. I planted my foot upon the palpitating mass. 'AEI es muertoI I shrieked joyfully. A passing man gave the quivering carcass an experi- mental kick, The chunk of beef slowly be- gan to rise. My troubles began again. The children were coming from the schools.