Oshkosh High School - Index Yearbook (Oshkosh, WI)

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D E C E II I! 10 l; 1 N II K X NINETEEN HUNDRED SIXTEEN night when Miss Wharton opened the Gilbert door and peeped in, she saw that Jean ' s face had again tal en on its happy expression, and she bowed reverently as she heard her repeat that old Christmas poem: For lo, the days are hast ' ning on, By prophet bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years Comes round the age of gold; When peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendours fling. And the whole earth give back the song Which now the angels sing. E. M. S., ' 17. The Seasons The year ' s awakening is here, When verdure, bud, and flower appear; Then cold and wintry winds are stilled. And earth with pulsing life is filled. ' Tis spring! When hay lies heaped in fragrant mounds. And earth seems filled with drowsy sounds; The wind ' s soft whisper in the trees. The droning hum of wandering bees, ' Tis summer! The sky is bright blue overhead; The leaves a golden glory shed; Though ' tis the twilight of the year. The earth is filled with joy and cheer. ' Tis autumn! But soon comes Storm King ' s icy blast, The trembling leaves to earth are cast; The trees toss wildly in the gale Which loudly moaning seems to ivail. ' Tis winter! R. L. Pag ' e lweiit '

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DECEMBER I X 1 ) E X NINETEEN HUNDRED SIXTEEN Come on, fellows, here is the paper and my contribution, urged Jack, as he displayed a coin. That is how eleven boys in Texas, from a pure desire for something to do, came to write letters to France. Before the letters were written, many an additional idea was formed, and thus quite a package was assem- bled containing money and other gifts. The boys addressed the package and bundles of letters to The Most Needy Person in France. After won- dering what the inspectors would think of it, they posted the missile, little realizing what good it might do. It was Christmas in Paris. Never had a sadder Christmas Day dawned on that city; cold, hunger, agony, grief, and despair were everywhere evi- dent It was the coldest day of the season and the fuel was low. In such circumstances the .American Hostel for Refugees in Paris found itself, and well the supporters of this institute might be troubled trying to bring cheer and comfort to the three thousand who had fled to them for aid. This insti- tute had sent an appeal to America for money and clothing, and it was on that source that their hope rested. Many answers to the appeal had already come, but still there were many more to provide for. One of the distributers of the aid which American citizens ha d sent was looking and longing for a special sort of gift on this certain Christmas. She wanted something which would be suitable for a family of five, who were formerly people of means. This particular family had taken her fancy, especially a girl of eighteen, Jean Gilbert by name. Jean was the sole life and joy of the Gilbert household, who seemed to feel their wretched povertv-stricken state more than the poorer class. In fact, the Gilbert ' s really shrank from taking assistance or charity, as they deemed it. Miss Harper, the distributer, had noticed that even Jean was losing her happy spirit of late and that her smile, which had always been spontaneous, now seemed forced. It is no wonder that Miss Harper longed for some indi- vidual gift which would not seem charitable, but would have a personal and individual charm. It was then that the Wisconsin boys ' package from Texas caught her eye. When she saw the letters, she knew they would take away the sting of the money which they also brought. After erasing the inscription which the boys had placed upon the package, she addressed and sent it to the Gilbert ' s. Cautiously, but with growing interest, Jean opened the package. Oh! she cried, letters, letters for us; the first letter I have received for a year. The whole family seemed to share Jean ' s enthusiasm and read and re- read the letters, laughing and crying at the same time. The gifts were divided as best they could be, and the money went to pay for the ten-dollar rent which they had to pay every month for their one-room dwelling. That Page nineteen

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DECE-MBER INDEX Naaixis asuQMnH N33iH.vi.y aoj The Boy (Ice Fishing) MANY times on those short winter days the Boy trudged through the village and down along the lane that led to the bridge across the bayou and beyond, out onto the vast marsh in the distance. On this particular day he stopped at the bridge for a moment to drink in great draughts of the crisp, cold air. He thought of the tales his father loved to relate of how, when he himself was but a boy, he had caught fabulous strings of perch and bullhead from this very same bridge. The Bayou Bridge it was called by the older inhabitants of the village. It was built entirely of logs and was suspended a few feet above the water — the water which now flowed among fairy ice-palaces far below the surface of the snow-covered ice which stretched white and unbroken to north and south. Leaving the road the Boy turned to the south to follow the smooth, white surface which betokened the course of the bayou. On either side stretched banks and ponds, rushes and brush; their outlines half revealed, half concealed by the new-fallen snow. Farther off to the west could be seen a grove of trees, their bare branches voicing a ceaseless complaint to the blustering wind. Soon the Boy, following the cut in its hugh half circle, was traveling toward the west, and, having left the friendly shelter of the trees and underbrush, first felt the true force of the wind. It was strong and icy cold and he had need of his warm woolen garments here. His feet, encased in several pairs of thick, knit socks and a pair of beaded moccasins, left huge, unshapely prints on the otherwise unmarked surface of the snow. He had now reached the first bayou, a large, pear-shaped body of water fringed with sweet flag, wild rice, and cat-tails — a favorite feeding place of wild fowl in the autumn, but much too shallow to serve as a habi- tation for fish in winter, when it is frozen to nearly one-half of its depth. Sweeping a spot bare with his foot, the Boy could look down through the ice and see the green moss and water plants waving about as if they, too, felt the gusts of blustering wind even in their quiet vaults beneath the imprisoning ice crystals. But the Boy thought of the lines which he had set the day before and hurried forward through the second cut and across the second bayou, through its fringe of crackling, snow-incrusted reeds and across the inter- vening marsh to the Old River. The Old River, properly speaking, is no river at all, but merely a long, half-moon shaped bayou, which marks the former course of the Fox river; the river having changed its course and left this bayou — a veritable fisherman ' s paradise. Sliding down the steep bank in a flurry of snow, the Boy throws down his gun and lunch, and, with his ice chisel, attacks the ice which has Page twent ' -one