Racine High School - Kipikawi Yearbook (Racine, WI)

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t ,, IU: ' ':AZ: EEE E5:E:E22E :E1:2ii:Ef mlllHlllIlll 'lf li ' Tii llllllllllll ui Wm 1 will ll' ll ll allfl-it'1-lT.lllQlll l lighted exits were debouching long files of chattering workers, leaving for home. The twilight deepened slowly and muted all that was harsh in the day into a fugue of faint and soothing murmurs. Within the Home, the nurses were putting the babies to sleep, or were giving the older children their evening meal. It was a scene of quiet cheerful activity. The lighted windows winked gayly to the darkness outside. In her cozy office the matron sat chuckling over a new arrival, while without, in the black streets, there wandered aimlessly with lagging foot- steps, the forlorn figure of a man. The Drifter had broken again from his moor- ings. He came to a lighted street corner just as the theater throngs were emerging from the brilliantly lighted places of amusement. The crowd jostled him roughly, so that he was aroused from lethargy. The old man backed up against the wall of the theater and watched the people pass. Then he moved on, gazing at everything about him. He carried a sleepy child over the crossing for a grateful mother, and before setting it down, kissed it. Before the mother could thank him, he slipped down a side street. It was dark there, but the old man drew the back of his hand across his cheek and brought it away wet. Then the darkness swallowed him up. No one could say how the destructive Ere at Taylor's Orphan Home started. It must have been midnight when the greedy flames reached the first floor and aroused the nurses from their slumber. A Hre alarm was rung, and through the dark night noisy engines came rumbling to the scene. The quickly assembled crowd assisted the nurses and officers in rescuing the children from the Home before the fire got beyond control. In vain the firemen fought as the flames ad- vanced, and from more than one pair of lips came a sigh of thankfulness that the children were safe. The Home became a roaring furnace, and painted the sky with rosy light. The crowd settled back, watching with fas- cination the lurid pillar of fire. The matron and nurses were standing off to one side, comforting the older children, when through the crowd there burst the disheveled figure of Peter Fadden. He made as if to dash into the burning building, then spying the matron he staggered to her. Mutely he pointed to the blistering walls, and she nodded yes. The sick one? Is it out? he croaked. She looked at him again and the frown left her forehead. It's still in the nursery. It has been dead many hours. We had no time. It is better so. Before the astonished eyes of the peo- ple the old man ran forwardg then elud- ing the outstretched arms of the firemen, he entered the portals and was lost in the smoke and fire. The people moved for- ward tensely. Somewhere in the press a woman fainted and was carried away. One of the firemen ran to the door of the building, shouting foolishly, and returned gasping for air. The crowd settled back to wait. Five minutes had elapsed before Peter Fadden came, crawling on hands and knees, with the corpse of the dead baby hugged to his bosom. His hands and face were gruesomely red, and his clothes were reeking with smoke. With a fire- man's coat for a pillow, they gently stretched him out on the sidewalk, nor thought of removing the child from his dying embrace. The crowd gathered close as a doctor knelt by the old man's side. His eyes opened, and someone spoke. You're going to die, Peter. As the people stood silent, the men un- consciously bared their heads, the roar- ing of the fire abated and died away, the hush of night fell over all. An ineffable smile lit up The Drifter's face, and clasp- ing the baby's silent form close to his heart, he departed on that long, long voyage that was to make full restitution for all the heartaches of his earthly wanderings. -Kfnford Nelson, '23.

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continually bobbed up and down, as if acknowledging applause. His eyes were a soft brown, and they had the habit of peering anxiously at everyone, as a lost dog, looking for his master, intently watches each approaching stranger. It may have been due to his voluntary celibacy, it may have been due to his more or less involuntary loneliness, but let it be said that old Peter's outstanding characteristic was his great love for babies. And his love for babies brought him to his death. It was a morning of sunshine in March. The sap was starting to run, and the buds of the beech trees were fairly drip- ping with stickiness. From the highest trees the early birds were pouring music on the heads of the unsuspecting. Peter was working in the garden, breaking ground for planting, and it was as he labored there that the idea came to him. The latticed windows of the nursery were open to allow the Spring air to enter, and as he listened, Peter heard one of the babies cry. Lifting his head to hear better, he smiled with his broken teeth, for the cooing of the babies now came to him distinctly. He laid down his shovel and cocked his head. Then he tottered stealthily toward a side door of the building that led directly into the great, white-walled nursery. Turning the knob of the door, he entered the room. It was filled with long rows of tiny white beds, and in each there lay a baby. He went from cot to cot, smiling down at the red faces and squinting eyes, and sometimes he laid a crooked finger in a dimpled hand, laughing brokenly when the baby gurgled and squeezed it. Darned little cuss, he muttered, darned little cuss. He passed on, gazing at each one in turn. When he found one sleeping, he tiptoed quickly away. Finally he came to the end of the line, and was at the crib of the baby that had been crying. He saw at a glance how small it was, so much smaller than the others. Its face was pitifully white and drawn, and when- ever it coughed, it raised its feeble arms above its head in a spasm of pain. As if to exclude the unwelcome light, its eyes were shut tightly. Old Peter lifted it very gently from the crib and cradled it in his arms. The baby turned and clutched his blue shirt with uncanny strength. Then the tears came to Peter's eyes, blurring them so the sickly face of the child was lost in a haze. He kissed the drawn forehead and laid the child carefully back on the bed. The office door opened suddenly as he was about to leave the room, and the matron entered. She looked with amaze- ment at the old man. Peterl No answer. Peter, l'm sorry to find you here again. The old man was studying his shoe. Why have you disobeyed me, Peter? Do you remember the last time I found vou herefli' it The old man nodded but kept his eyes on the floor. Wl1at did l say you must do, if you were tound here again? Leave, whispered the old man. Then why are you here?U He looked at her lon in lv. I-I like g gt Y ' I ' Y, em. I didn t mean nothing. Her motherly heart was touched for the moment, but her official position could not allow leniency. She spoke to him quietly but kindly. l'm sorry, but you'll have to leave, Peter. He bowed and shuffled from the room. With pitying eyes she watched him go, and then she turned to the sick baby. lts white clothes were soiled where Peter's dirty hands bad heen placed, but its face was as white as the pillow on which its head rested. She uttered a sigh and bent over the infant. It was dead. Out in the street the dusk was padding the sun-drenched ground with darkness. Factory whistles competed hoarsely, and

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'1la1ag2g1EZ, ki' lllllll' ll!! ll I llttlllflilltlil'i 'lllllll.lllttllll nm llllllllllllllllll In llnn -::f g5:g,.,t ,.1,1gg 5,.,2 EE. lllllll i llllllllllll i iilmiiiluilnllllllglllllillllltsszzsz The kipikatni I think that you will never see An annual like the Kipifeawi. A book within whose leaves are pressed Some literature of the high school's best. A book that you will keep always, Upon whose pages mem'ry plays. A book with art and writing rare. With which no other can compare. Within whose pages genius lives, - A book which slams and bouquets gives. Others have tried, but with luck blest This book of ours is far the best. tApologies to Ioyce Kilmer . . taken from TTKEJJ - Pear! W1'chfrn, '23, 3Iups uf Ulibeme writing Lightly the carefree feet of the high school students trip along the path of knowledge. Ioyfully they pursue the rose strewn path, then, of a sudden, the path becomes beset with thorns. Hear, children, the clarion tones of the tyrannical teacher of English re- sound throughout the room, on the morrow you will bring to class a neat, well-written theme. We gaze at one another apprehen- sively. Fear enters our hearts. Gloom descends like a cloud. Then indeed is there wailing and gnashing of teeth. Greater and greater becomes our misery, I am about to give up hope, then, a ray of light in the darkness, Infpiration arrives. The Calfulating Coroanul Honor the cocoanutf' this I hastily jot down, for his strength, his food- value, and his ability to keep a secret. Where, my friends, can you find another paragon equal to the doughty nut? Beneath his shaggy exterior is the rich, sound, nutritious meat. Alas, this model of virute has not the slim, aesthetic grace of the indolent banana,yet, happily it is devoid of the malicious treachery of that same fruit. Who, I ask defiantly, has ever slipped on a cocoanut peel? The heartless teacher will not appre- ciate the joys and sorrows, the touching family life of the taciturn cocoanutf Say, that's poetryl Teachers, teachers, Heartless creatures. That is an excellent start, but that is all. In a short time the erring pen is deep in the intricacies of a wall-paper design. Gloom has returned with tripled vim and vigor. Iust as I am about to succumb to his deadly onslaught, inspir- ation again returns, this time bearing something modern and 'lsnappyf' The Maizdlzfn M3'Jtfr3' Qf Moonlfff Mary, I inscribe. Close to the western horizon a ruby light shone steadily, untlickeringly, send- ing forth the scarlet rays in all directions. Une of these rays sped toward the earth, and, on arriving, was swallowed by a huge telescope that protruded from a vast dome. Along the top of the tele- scope, and insulated from it, ran a rod of half radium and half aluminum. At the far end it was sharpened to a point, near the dome it was soldered to a piece of no. 14 copper wire. Within the dome sat a small man, his eye glued to the telescope. He was attired in a skull-cap of black silk. 'Ha, ha,' he chuckled, 'now I shall leavef On either side of him was a lofty coil of wire, each coil sur- mounted by a large brass ball. As the diminutive scientist pressed the key before him, the towering coils glowed faintly for a moment, then they were surrounded with weird, greenish-yellow coronas. The body of the scientist him- self was lit up by a strange, electrical radiance. A moment passed, then a huge arc formed between the two balls of brass. For a second the roaring pass- age of electricity continued, then all was silent. The whole incident had taken but a fraction of a minute, yet the man with the black skull-cap had van- ished completely, absolutely, and he had left that article in the seat of the chairlu That's altogether too deep, besides, I can't think of a suitable ending. I'll wait till tomorrow to write the theme.