Racine High School - Kipikawi Yearbook (Racine, WI)

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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.

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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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'Vllllll :n 'h llT ' ' z i t rf z z r io i r l nlln:rilI'l ' 'l'l 5 lin iwlf11i11 'a l L' W ii il, l. ling ll...llllllvlllillllllllllll Tomorrow dawns, or, rather, grows slightly lighter than the night before. It is raining. By the Greek Pantheon, how it is rainingl I gaze remorsefully on the window. Queerly enough, thoughts of Noah's Ark and the Eighteenth Amend- ment predominate. Listless, all hope abandoned, I drag myself to school. In the study-period I begin painfully to scrape a theme to- gether. Other joys of theme writing ap- pear. This type is physical, or mechan- ical. Itconsists ofcharming sediment in the inkwell, fascinating blots on the paper, a hilariously bent pen, and other enchanting possibilities. An unclassified joy is the cheerful idiot seated near, who not only keeps up a running conversa- tion, but also, destitute of school- supplies, insists on borrowing. At last, with fear and trembling, I hand in the laboriously constructed document. Then I await approval or adverse criticism. Ah, woe is mel for man as the poet, or the plumber, or the bartender, has said, is ever doomed to disappointment. Why, the teacher exclaims, this theme reads like the vagaries of a rarebit fiend. That is, absolutely, the last straw. Hair awry, clothing disheveled, reason tottering, I slip away. I'm Bill Shakespeare, I shriek, I'm Wally Scott, I'm -U Crazy is right, says the handsome guard with Gatliff on his cap, this is about the worst case we've had. Walk right in, my lord. - Arthur Kidder. '24 The ibearl The man at the table hung his head. Outside, the wind whirled the snow about the attic window, causing it to sift in the cracks left by an ill-fitting shutter. A deathly silence filled the roomg not even the ticking of a clock broke the stillness. The lone figure sat unmoved. In the distance, on the Boulevard Saint Michel, a bell chimed. It was midnight. Slowly the man raised his head, slowly he glanced about the room, slowly he contemplated the delicate scientific instruments scattered on the table-the frail, expensive bits for whose sake he had gone hungry and cold-the intricate tools which held the key to his past as well as his future. His gaze wandered about the big barren garret room - only a bit of bread there in the unpainted cupboard, only a broken chair away off there in the corner, only the tattered remnant of what had once been a shade on the window. Again his eyes came back to the table, seeking, seeking. Ah, there it was. Slowly, marveling, he picked it up with a look of awe in his face, that look of a heathen worshipping Baal- an Oriental at the shrine of a green goddess - a Christian at the spot where Christ was crucified. Slowly he watched the candle light play upon it- the beautiful pearl to which he had dedicated his life. Would it ever repay him? It did not seem possible now that his hope was gone from him. Perhaps it was not worth it, to seek for years to develop in a beautiful pearl the rain- bow lights of the sunset, to endure hunger, and cold, and thirst, and to deny oneself love 4 Lovel That was itl That was what he had missed the most through the years. His mind went back to the long ago- to that summer's night when he had walked with Marguerite on the sea-shore. He remembered now what a beautiful night it had been, he remem- bered the white sand, the lapping waters, the moon shining in a silver pathway across the waves, and the gleaming bubble on the shore. He had been telling Marguerite of his love for her. She knew it, to be sure, but how sweet it was to listen. He had been speaking of an undying passion, when his eyes, leaving the lovely face at his side, were attracted by the bright gleam on the sands. He had stopped, - queer, how it should seem like yesterday, - he had left her, he had fondled and exclaimed over the beautiful pearl in his hand, he had been seized with the great idea, his great ambition, and the girl by his side, mis- understanding the soul of the scientist, thinking only of how he had abandoned