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

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H H 10 H E M W JUNE, 1926 Ooh, lookit, Barnum 'n Bailey's here. Lookit the bull Hghters! Hey mister, are you Spanish? What does carramba mean? Children, tens, hundreds, it seemed, came running. One of the little imps forced a red scarf into my hand. An idea! Lorenzo let go the rope tied to the bull's nose and I ran ahead. Planting myself in the middle of the road, fifteen feet ahead of the bull, I waved the scarlet challenge and in dulcet, cooing tones invited the bull to share a sultry eternity with Satan. The animal blinked, bellowed, came after the red scarf like an express train. I drop- ped the scarf and made for the nearest tree. The bull pawed the scarf in the dust, look- ed at us with a bored air, and stood still. Again I resumed my tail-twisting. In fif- teen minutes we had a laughing, jeering, hooting procession behind us. We passed a convent. Three nuns were coming out. Lorenzo immediately stopped proceedings. The nuns stopped, too. After answering satisfactorily their queries as to our bull-fighting proclivities, Lorenzo announced he was going to build a fire under the creature, The nuns laughed and moved on. I twisted the tail viciously, and Satan, as we had by this time so christened him, moved on also. As we were about to give up the ship and retire in disgust-also in partial dis-array- a neighbor hove in sight with a couple of horses and a wagon. Bravo! the picadorl A hurried consultation took place and the bull was tied on behind the wagon. The horses startedg the bull, with feet firmly planted was dragged behind, making deep, little furrows in the ground with his sharp hoofs. A half mile of this and the horses were tired. The sky had darkened and it had be- gun to rain. We angrily untied the animal- quite ungrateful for the tow-vitriolically surveyed him, then despairingly we tied him to a fence-post, three-quarters of a mile from home, feeling that if anyone could make the infernal mass of beef move he had earned three hundred dollars worth of concentrated obstinacy and pedigreed stubbornness. We also wondered why and especially how Noah succeeded in getting a bull into the ark. Sadly we returned home for supper. We were greeted by excited cries of What hap- pened? Did he run away? and the like. We preserved a stony, painful silence. Gloomily we ate: we donned raincoats, and with malevolent faces and Machievel- lian thoughts returned to our task. We untied him. I-Ie ran as though Satan himself were in pursuit. Up the road we sprinted, afraid that he might become dis- couraged or take a dislike to the pattern of the wagon ruts and stop. We arrived home more angry than ever. The bull stood in the front yard chewing grass complacently. A subtle guiding hand was placed on his lead strap. He walked airily to the barn and submitted to being tied. It was a tame end to a bull fight. A CONTENTMENT By WILLIAM BEISANG When the morning sun is breaking Where the eagle's nest is bare, And a weary world is waking To another day of care, When the robins sing in treetops, And the swallows start to soar, Let me linger in the orchard And I'll ask for nothing more. Let me linger in the orchard And contented there I'll lie, While the sun, the Prince of morning, Slowly rises in the sky. Let me step into the dreamland Where I've roamed in days of yore, Give me day dreams in the orchard And I'll ask for nothing more. When the evening sun is glowing In the far off Western skies, And I know the day is going As the moon begins to rise, When the crickets in the twilight Start in chanting by the score, Let me linger in the orchard And I'll ask for nothing more.

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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.

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Al fr :IUN1-271926 gr g W f Wg f f W ll What Goes Up Comes Down By RUTH M. HALSTEAD CBased on a newspaper incidentj HEMI C a little bit louderj Aheml Finally Mr. Blatton gave up in despair and said quite loudly, HMy 'NM' dear! After attracting his wife's attention Mr. Blatton threw out his chest and announced, This is the third day of the strike. It's time those working men were toeing the mark. 'Surely you don't think the strikers will hold out much longer, do you? inquired his wife. Why, what would you do if they did? Mr. Blatton slowly considered the last question and then answered, A'Well, I know this much. The owners of the woolen mills are entirely too lenient. Now if I were at the head of such a large number of men, I doubt if such a thing would have occur- red. Oh, there's no danger of violence, I hope? cried Mrs. Blatton. That would be horrible. Well, you never can tell. Just this morning a bomb was found under some fur- niture on the front porch of one of the head men. It looks pretty bad to mef' His poor wife was quite frightened by this time, HI didn't realize conditions were so bad. And you're one of the employers, tool Oh, what should I do if such a thing hap- pened to us? There, there now, don't worry, con- soled Mr. Blatton, I'm here to protect you, you know. Why, no one would dare to harm me. Just then the clock struck nine and their seventeen-year-old son burst in on the scene. Tall and slim was Tom with the appear- ance of a young Valentino. His Stay-comb hair looked as though it had just received a permanent patent leather shine and the burn- sides coming down a little on each cheek were quite the latest thing. His sport shirt was open at the front and his Oxford Bags all but covered the tips of his nude colored shoes. Say, ma, he cried, the police are patroling the street in front of our house, didja know that? Boy, I'm hungry! Got anything to eat? The Hrst fact so overwhelmed the second that it failed to penetrate the calm mind of his father and the excited one of Uma. Again the question was repeated. A'Go find something in the kitchen, Mrs. Blatton absently answered. Not waiting for further words Tom bolt- ed for that room. He opened the bread box and stirred around its contents. There was nothing there to his liking. Just then a can of beans came into view. Oh, just what I want. Wonder if I better take 'em? Guess I found them in the kitchen, so I will, reasoned the boy. Satisfied with this piece of brain work he placed the can of beans in the oven and lit the Hre. Then picking up the Daily Gazette the lad perched on the edge of the table and began reading the paper's account of the strike. Some ten minutes later a loud explosion shook the house. A deathlike silence fol- lowed. A scream! Then all was in confu- sion. ' In the living room Mr. Blatton jumped up and gasped, What was that? You don't suppose it was a bomb, be- gan Mrs. Blatton. OhI It was a bomb. I know it was, and with that he made a dive for the daven- port. Sad to say, Mr. Blatton was fat and the davenport low, and total disappearance was a difficult accomplishment. Mr. Blat- ton, however, did his best. On the other hand Mrs. Blatton was sud- denly calm and quit the room for the back regions of the house. Meanwhile a policeman who had heard the explosion as he was passing by came rushing in through the living room. His eyes met Mr. Blatton's legs waving in the air from under the davenport, a strange enough spec- tacle to upset even a Teuton. What's the matter, man? What's the matter? he cried pulling the brave hus- band out. All Mr. Blatton could moan was