Mukwonago High School - Arrow Yearbook (Mukwonago, WI)

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T H E A R R () w—pa ;e seventeen M- Where is our patriotism? Haven’t we any? Are we so callous that the sight of Old Glory, as it ripples in the breeze, does not send a thrill through our hearts and make us long to defend it, as we think of all it stands for? If we are, then we are not worthy to be called citizens of U. S. and are worse than “the man without a country” whom we exiled because of a few hasty words spoken in a mo- ment of passion, but regretted all his life. If not, then let us respond to the call to arms and march on to victory. Let us uphold our honor and prove to the world that our glorious U. S. is one of the greatest nations in the world. —ELIZABETH BULLION, ’18. ---------------- - PESTS I had always considered a dog the greatest pest in the world, but if possible I hated them more after we moved ne'xt door to “that dog.” It began to let us know it existed about ten minutes after the first load of furniture had arrived, by going to the porch where the men had carefully deposited a pile of curtains and after carefully selecting one of the best in the pile and. taking it to its own porch, solemn- ly began to tear it to pieces. Not wishing to come in close contact with the dog or have a quarrel the first day in our new neighborhood, we let the event pass peacefully by. Nothing of great importance happened for the next couple of days although our two cats, a couple of chickens, the door mat and several other small articles disappeared. On the third day, after carefully cleaning a pair of white shoes, I set them in the sun to dry. After forgetting them for half a day I sent my sister out to get them, but they were gone. It was that dog again. I would have given anything to have been able to throw a stone at least ten feet and throw it straight. The owner of this dog was a genuine type of “maiden lady” and would not hear of having the dog killed. What were we to do? After living there about two weeks we had just about decided that life near that dog would be unbearable, when I, who happened to be home alone at the time, looked up to see a man who was evidently a tramp as evidenced by his long, long, ragged beard and torn and dirty clothes, standing in the doorway. Fright- ened, I stood up and started for the door but was unable to reach it before the man had entered. What was I to do? Crash! What would that dog do next? He had attempted to jump through the kitchen window and in doing so had knocked a number of milk bottles on the floor. The tramp did not stop to find the cause of the crash but ran out of the door and down the street as fast as he could go. The dog was soon at his heels. In a few minutes the dog returned with the tramp’s hat in his mouth. The dog was of some use after all and from that time on I decided there were greater pests than dogs. —MILDRED WEST. m------------------ - MIKAVONAGO One warm afternoon during the past sum- mer I was riding along a dusty road with a friend of mine. He was driving the car and it just chanced that as we came to the summit of a large hill, I should look around and then ask him to stop. With my arm extended I showed him the stream below us, the rolling hills, the zig-zlag of many fences and the streets of a little village lying peacefully and mistily under the beams of golden sunshine. We had a field glass which was very power- ful and it was not long before everything was distinct and familiar to our eyes. As I took the glass and looked through it a feeling came to me as though, for the first time, I was view- ing a quaint old French village and then that picture faded from my mind, leaving an after- glow' which filled me with content and calm. At the lower end of the town I can perceive a mill around which is a stream of water that gets its source from the lakes that appear sunk- en in the distance. The water goes on and on, past a gaunt black railroad bridge and then in a winding, careless fashion through the level country belowr me. It seems that one side of the village is bounded by the railroad, one by the sparkling waters of the lake and the rest by woods and open country. It is stretched out in the shape of a huge club, much longer than it is wide and with two streets that carry the main traffic. The streets are shaded by many trees, which are a dark green compared to the lighter hue of the grass about the houses. In the center of the village is a bandstand and a grass plot; and in an irregular manner about them I can see the business houses of the place. They look old and time worn from up here.

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 T II E A R R O W----I’A K SIXTKKN UNITED STATES IN THE PRESENT CARNAGE The part the United States plays in this present war is both interesting and important, not only to us as students of American history, not only to you as American patriots, but to our foes and allies. The manner of U. S. en- trance into the present war is both startling and noble. Never before in all the annals of history has a power taken up arms in defense of helpless humanity, and in the interests of humanity alone. With nothing to gain, but everything to lose, it is a noble act which plunges a nation such as our glorious U. S. into the horrors of war, and leads the way to victory. Nor can these horrors be overestimated. Not only are millions and billions of dollars spent daily, and not only are millions and billions of lives sacrificed every day on the altar of greed and ambition, but think of the tears of the widows and orphans which nothing can quench, and the sorrow' of fathers and mothers which nothing can alleviate. Every day death stalks abroad on the battle field, taking away the son or the father from the fighting line, or the sweet daughter from her errand of mercy among the Red Cross workers; while far away, in the homes of the rich and poor alike, are the tears shed, and the sorrow for the victim of that day’s battle. And far away, in some dank, unhealthy prison, languishes the soldier, vainly hoping for his exchange, but often wait- ing in vain, while he often nears his “journey’s end” as a prisoner of war. Thus while we wait • at home in a fever of anxiety and uncertainty, the war goes on. each day adding some dear one to the list of dead, wounded and missing. But great as are these horrors, and great as is the suffering both at home and abroad, there is one thing that is greater. Yes, a thousand times greater and a thousand times more shameful and disgraceful! That is to stand back and let Germany ruthlessly carry on her submarine warfare, which sends to the bottom of the ocean the lives of our people for no cause whatsoever. It was a shameful act w'hich sent the Lusitania, with her cargo of human lives, to the bottom of the “deep blue sea.” It was a ruthless act which sunk the Asiatic and a score of others with their passengers and sailors. These are the victims of Germany’s inhuman warfare. And wliy? What is the motive back of these? What is the excuse for these cruel acts? There is but one answ'er to all these questions. Germany wants to build up a world-wide empire and intends to break up England’s sea power through U. S. And must our lives and the lives of our peo- ple of U. S. be taken for no reason at all ex- cept Germany’s ambition? No! Never! No, al- ways, and forever, no! Let us rise as one man to the call “to arms” as our congress and our government prepare to avenge these shameful acts. We are not content to be branded as “cowards” by the whole world! We are not content to have the finger of scorn and derision pointed at us because we are afraid to do our part across the seas! No! We, the people of U. S. and descendants of our brave forefathers, will follow the example of our illustrious Washington, and march on to victory. U. S. must do her part in this war. No turning back now. She must raise a grand army and send across the ocean and with the help of our allies repeat the glorious victories of England and France. We must avenge the insult offered our nation and the innocent lives so ruthlessly destroyed. Then, and only then, will wre consent to sign the treaty of peace. We must raise money to carry on our part in the war. The call has been issued for seven billion dollars. But more will be needed and yet more to enable us to carry on our warfare. We must have food, not only at home, but for our soldiers and for our allies. England needs food and wre must supply it in order to secure the victory w’e so earnestly desire. France is weakening and may be so crippled that she can only play a small part in the field. Russia may retire. Italy may not be able to do very much. But no matter. U. S. must do her part, and with Great Britain push on. Eng- land hopes to crush Germany and looks to U. S. for help. And U. S. must feed her allies, fight her battles and successfully float her war bonds. She must “tole” her share no matter how heavy it may be. If we are to uphold our honor and preserve the nation for which our forefathers fought and died and for which “Old Abe” sacrificed his life that she might stand united, we must fight Germany. And now, are we going to stand by while barbarians from the south and invaders from the west destroy their work?

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 T II E ARRO W—PAGE EIGHTEEN Mukwonago is a village of homes. I see more of them than anything else. No filthy smoke pollutes the air and the streets are not thickly crowded. At the upper end I see a depot and a small colony of buildings. A mas- sive, grayish-white High School looms up as a banner of a regiment might. I take the glass, and I am pleased with what I have seen. It is comfortable and beautiful even in its narrow life. —EMMET SHERIDAN. ------------------► THE MAN ON THE STAIRS It was a cold, dull night in April when the sharp, sighing wind and the throbbing, patter- ing rain muffled the roar of the long, swift trains as they rushed into the gloom of the Union depot, carrying their cosmopolitan bur- dens which were nearing a common destina- tion. The coaches halted, and a weary, protesting multitude poured forth, thronging up to the steps of the station with impatient haste. The lights of the depot streamed warmly out upon the jostling travelers, shining radiantly upon one of them, one who held himself a lit- tle aloof, outwardly oblivious of the rain. It was this one who passed hurriedly out of the brilliant band of light which had indicated him as plainly as the footlights outline the star performer, and on into the building. There he ascended a second flight of steps until he stood beside the gigantic clock which, day after day, informed the passers-by of the flying time. Below him lay the interior of the Union depot, each crevice of whose walls was plain- ly visible in the glow of the lamps. Below him were people, many, many people—hurrying, al- ways hurrying. Below him lay the tragedy of life—tragedy so mixed with happiness that it was not always recognized. But it was there. Sadly the silent observer admitted that it was there. Tragedy in the face of the little bent Italian woman who stood cringing beneath the quick, stern directions of one of the guards. Something in that furrowed, grief-stricken face, something in the dark, sorrowful, beautiful eyes made the man by the clock understand. “There has been a death,” he said, “a death, and she is going back.” He turned again to the clock, wondering, conjecturing about the scenes it must have witnessed. And then the man beside the clock, because he was a poet and an author, began to imagine, weaving the fragments of lives which he saw below him into short yet fanciful biographies of the people there. Had the clock ever done it, he wondered. Directly beneath him stood a group of men in comfortable overcoats and silk hats; dia- monds glittered on their fingers, and most of them carried canes. They were financiers, judged the man on the stairs. He could hear them talking about investments. One of them mentioned “watered stock ’ and the others laughed. “We won’t be caught,” said one dis- tinctly. “Besides, when we’ve got what we want and it begins to look dangerous we can get out.” The rest of the words the author above them did not hear, until one of the group said. “I’m old-fashioned, I suppose, but this isn’t straight and I don’t want to be in it.” With new interest the unseen observer looked at the face of the man who had just spoken. It was a rugged face, with clear cut features, and the eyes were blue, honest blue. The poet looked again and saw the face of a boy. A boy whom everyone trusted, a boy who was depend- able, a boy who would not hesitate to say, “but this isn’t straight and I don’t want to be in it.” The financiers moved away and the author saw that two ragged little children were stand- ing near the stairs. He could not hear what they were saying, but he imagined that they had come there to wait for a father and a mother who had been away on a brief, hard- earned vacation. Expectancy was written in each homely little face. An elderly gentleman and a young woman were approaching the ticket office. As they came nearer, the man on the stairs heard the girl say impatiently, “Oh yes. father, I do know how you feel. We’ve talked it over so many, many times. I have talent; isn’t it only right that I go away to develop it? I do not want to live here with the money you are giving me. I want my own. The money 1 have earned in my profession.” A look of torture crossed the countenance of the man beside her. “It’s all right,” he said huskily, “but oh, I shall miss you, Elizabeth!” A middle-aged man and his wife crossed over to the stairs and stopped there for a moment. “This is the first real vacation we’ve had to- gether for three years,” they said happily, “isn’t it fine?” They laughed joyously as they passed out through the swinging doors.