Polytechnic High School - Polytechnic Student Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)

Page 29 text:

THE HISTORY OF A HEN Mildred A. Jordan, S'14. My mother intended to kill the little, soreheaded chick that had strayed to our place, but it found a soft spot, without any difficulty, in my childish heart, and I determined that die it should not. It was indeed a sad picture that chick, standing on long, gawky legs and seeming to care very little about its drooped head. I sat on the wash bench, with my chin in my hand and pondered. Finally I had an inspiration. I had seen Ellen Green-Ellen Green was the cook- put common coal oil on the heads of chickens afflicted in this manner. That would surely save the chick, I decided, if I could only keep him hidden in a safe place. With few objections on the part of the chicken, I wrapped him in my checked apron, then found a soap box, and journeyed far down past the garden into the weed patch, put the chicken under the box and went to find the oil can. I had just succeeded in locating it when my mother came out and asked me what I was doing there. At last, however, she went away. I got the can and slipped back to my patient. I fished out the disconsolate fowl, placed him between my knees and be- gan the treatment. After putting the oil on his head, I decided that as he was a very sick chicken, it would be well to anoint the whole body. Proudly I tended him every day, watching over him with the most tender care, thinking always of the lusty cock that would astonish my cruel family. My hopes were almost dashed on the third day when his feathers began to come off one by one. When I tried to make them grow again by putting on more oil, he strongly objected and I decided that he was getting better. In a week he was well and running about. I-Iow proud I was! One day my mother informed me that my chicken had laid an egg. Laid an egg? I was disgusted. He was a hen. It grew into a big, fat hen, perfectly willing to adopt any stray little chick that happened along, a proverbial stepmother, my father said. He added that it was crazy, that the oil had gone to its head, but I always in- sisted that thc poor thing must have had typhoid. l34l

Page 28 text:

The game of death enacting there. And now the moon comes from her lair, And rising high among the stars She sheds her light in silver bars Between the rocks and finds the place Where lies the chief with upturned face To the stars which blink above his head- The last of the tribe, the chief, is dead! ABOUT NOTHING AT ALL Phyllis Harrington, W'15. Nothing at all, O Fellow-student, is the burden of your parents' argu- ments-the thing for which the ice man charges your father exorbitantly- the plate of fudge after your small brother has visited it-the theme of your neigbbor's gossip-the thing which you fear in the dark-your teaeher's ad- monitions-what you see in looking into a school inkwell-your rival debater's ideas-the contents of your mind during an attempt to write a composition. By these attributes is it known. Nothing at all cometh and sitteth like that bird of Poe, above your door, yet, being importuned to leave, ever ad- vanceth closer, and, mingling with your work, diluteth it. Tt leaveth you when you would entertain a guest with light frivolities-but cometh back when you must needs bc working. Tt is the resource of the would-be polite, who in an unguarded moment have forgotten themselves. and now must ex- plain thc occasion of their exclamationg it is that murmuring to yourself which doth oecnr when an adjective-less individual treads on one for bothj of your pedal extremities. T recall. amongst many childhood events, a vaudeville show that once held my youthful attention. 'Twas there. from the parlance of a comedian, I re- ceived my first inkling of the value of nothing-at-all. The details of his declar- ation and of the process by which T arrived at a high valuation of nothing- at-all, T would withhold. even though T still retain a recollection of themg for T cannot but agree, School-fellow. with our mutual friend, Miss H---, in her abhorrence of a superfluity of irksome contingencies, yet. like her, T deplore as much a paucity of phraseological diction. Such is the qnandary that T contemplate. T perceive that the fulfillment of my own prophecy has overtaken me and my subject has entered into the context of my essay irretrievably. 1 This is nothing-at-all. T331

Page 30 text:

THE YELLOW STREAK Harold Cooke, S'14. The fire died away slowly. Hudson-watched with interest the dense black clouds of smoke roll from the building under the steady streams of water the firemen were playing. Here, Hudson, a fresh break out in front, shouted the captain from aiound a corner. At the same time the terrified shriek of a woman filled t e air. Hudson, again the captain shouted. Hudson hesitated, but at the second scream he rushed forward, brushing the crowd aside recklessly, hearing at the same time a faint Hudson shouted by the captain. The fire was out at last, but the damage was great. The men were tired, sore at the loss, and disgusted with everything. As the engine was backed into its place at the fire station, the captain arrived on his motorcycle. Hudson, what do you mean by disobeying orders? I want an explana- tion, he angrily exploded. Well, sir-ah-the woman's ery-I- Woman nothing! You know that when you are ordered you must obey, :nd you know the penalties. I don't care if there are fifty women needing elp. Yes, sir. No grandstand plays go with me, I tell you, and see there are none hereafter, he said, as he shook his fist for emphasis. That will be all, Hud- son, this time. They think I'm a coward, that I was afraid to climb that old ladder as Hogan did. I'll show them, he muttered. They think it a huge joke that I should show yellow, he growled to himself as he turned around. I guess that will hold you. Got your number, IIuddie? and Oh, you pretty boy, greeted him as he entered the sitting room where his comrades sat playing cards. Let me in the game, Shorty, and we will make it four-handed, pedro, or anything you want, he demanded of the man who sat at the table idly fingering the cards. No, beat it, we don't want you in it, and Run along, ma's boy, they answered him. Ile smiled rather sickly. It's better to smile that way than not to smile at all, he thought as he went down to the telephone. Vermont 2704, please. After a pause, I'Iello! ls Helen there? Helen? Yes, but she just left with Hogan, shall I call her? No-I-you needn't, he stammered. i351