North Freedom High School - Torch Yearbook (North Freedom, WI)

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ASHES The old trapper walked slowly toward his huge fireplace. The cold win- ter night made necessary a blazing fire. At last the coming of snow would drive him onto his trap line. It would, perhaps, be spring before he would again sit before this fire. On one side of the room lay his traps, all fixed and ready for the work ahead. His heavy clothes, and few they were, were packed in a small bundle. An array of knives and a battered rifle, his most precious treasure, completed the stock that would on the morrow be stowed away on the sled. But tonight the trapper walked with heavy tread. From off the mantle he took two objects. Both were small and from his extreme care for both they must have been delicate. He crouched before the fire and looked at the things he held in his massive hands. I-low minute they appeared: the one an old, faded daguerreotype of a young girl. Barely visible were the soft lips and the wide eyes. With even more tenderness the old man gazed at the other hand. There he held a small baby shoe. As he looked at it his lingers slowly tightened till it disappeared within his shaggy fist. ' A giant tear fell upon his knee. With a slight turn of his head the only movement, his eyes sought the dancing fire. The sharp crackling of the branches sounded loudly and harshly in the surrounding stillness. And then, lo, in the flames he saw the picture come to life. There with the child in her arms he saw his wife. Wide went his eyes and tense his muscles as he stared ahead, with a wild animal leap his arms sought the quivering figure. Into the very flames he leaped, one short wild cry escaped him. Ik lk lk lk ak Folks say he went insane or else a stroke had stopped his heart. Nor tears were shed nor none were wanted. They could not know for the fire had long been burned out and all the visions, hopes and fears were once more only ashes. Page Twenty

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zizlzemory Y? WE PASS We pass, we pass, oh students dear- These halls of meditation. To seek our fate in life's grave paths In fear and consternation. 'Tis true we chide at times our lot And Iind things hard and weary. At night we tuck our books away And tread home, sad and dreary. But yet the joy-unequalled fun Cf coming and of going, Mixed with our choice acquaintanceships The seeds of mirth thus sowing. Till all the work and all the toil And dreary thoughts seem crass, And with a solemn, plaintive tone We say-we pass-we pass. -D G ON DEPARTING The time has come when we must leave Our high school days of fun and cheer: The day we'll see when we will grieve And wish that we were only here. We Seniors .eight have steps to climb Which call for efforts large and small: But if we had suflicient time, We're sure to win, and not to fall. lt's hard to leave the dear old school, The teachers and the students. too. But oh, how we did hate the rules That we obeyed till now, we're through. Although we often had a fight With Juniors or among ourselves, We've always tried to do the right, And 'tis with tears we say, Farewell -D. G. Page Nineteen

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i 4 FROM THE QUOTATIONS OF BILLY The bell rings the end of passing eve The guy who plows is coming from the field, The bellering cows run swiftly o'er the meadow And, by gosh, it's dark! My teacher says no poetry I know But she don't know the kind of a guy I be. I know more verse than all the guys around In fact, I'm good in poetry, So if you have some time List to this little rhyme. The guy who wrote it I don't know, But I think his name was Poe. In a little shell down by the ocean Was a girl called Annabel, see: But the boys around just called her 'Belle' Because she was so pretty. And here's another bit of rhyme From Stevenson this time. Under a sky that is starry Dig me a hole and let me be. I'm awfully glad that I'm dead, you see, Because I needed some castor oil. This be the lines you say for me, ' I'm glad he's dead like he ought to be The world is lucky and so is he For now he won't have to toil. Don't tell me, poets I can't quote: I know every line they ever wrote. -Wilbur Schmid YOUR GOAL Swing on, oh youth, this rough road o'er, Each milestone swiftly passing, The best of life and glory, and The finer things amassing. Set high your aim and firm your step Until the top you hold. Nor never cease, nor never rest, Until you reach your goal. Though it be small or it be great, It is not all the deed, But rather it's the way you do, It is your climbing speed. And when the gates of high success Before you do unroll: Then you can cease, then you can rest, For you have reached your goal. -Walte r Schara. t. Page Twenty-one