Roger Bacon High School - Troubadour Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

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Golden Rule Days wWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE in one of his renowned plays divides the life of a man into five parts. These divisions he entitles under various headings according to his idea. To me also, there are five separate chapters in the life of a human being, five chapters in which one either makes life happy, or unhappy, worth while, or worth- less. Through the Ages I The first section I scarcely re- member. It takes place at the time from my birth to my sixth year. The only recollections I have of this early period are the tales mother tells me, when she relates to me how much I cried, or how I first learned to walk and talk, when I was a babe. And then, after I come to my senses, in a strict meaning of the phrase, after babyhood, I pass into the age of grammar schooling. In these clays I have my first scraps With some bully, or take my first good ttbawling outi, from the teacher for throwing paper wads, or the like. In these days, also, I gain my first knowledge of an intellectual sort: I hegin to find out what this world is all about. After this age, I learn to comb my hair neatly as I pass into the high school era. From thence I go into young manhood and prepare to seek my opportunities in life, or to make acquaintance with my prospective life partner. The hnal chapter in my life book will be. the glorious, perhaps sad, old age, the time when I will look back retrospectively upon success or fail- ure, over the drama I have under- gone and enacted. The Real Chapter In any well-construeted novel, or story of a similar type, there are certain chapters which stand out as more important than others, which hear more stress to the plot of the tale. Likewise, with the book of life there is a pre-eminent chapter that surpasses the others. This chap- ter is entitled ttHigh School Days? ttSchool days, school days, dear old Year Booh,1933 This little bit of reflection by a senior who knows, makes a good bit of advice for the undergrads. with pleasure when yeu were a freshman, a sophomore, a junior, a senior? golden rule days, and the enchant- ing melody of that everlasting, effect- ive song lingers on. Oh, how happy are the days when I sit each day at my desk to work out some dizzyi, chemistry or algebra problem. ul hate sehoolfi young fellows will say, and yet they do not think as they blurt out this crude statement. There are no more joyous days than those of our schooling. ttYour school days are your best days, son? older persons, who have traversed more fully than I the path of life, inform me. XVith them I am inclined to agree unanimously, for to be truthful, I am getting a great ttkick out of life just now, in my high school days. When I became a Senior at high school, I began to glance back over my four-year course; I began to see wherein my faults lay, where I per- haps wasted valuable time in class, 01' where I did something without much thinking. In my fourth year I see all my ttwarming up days, the days when I first came to high school. On the Way Yes, I start at the beginning of the high school ladder, as a Freshman, meek and humble, wondering what it is all about, what it will lead tow this school life. Then I am initiated, brought into the spirit of the school. I become a small,l portion of this great institution that I attend. I am con- tent, COIllftIFtCCIHI work hard that first year, and my efforts bring re- sultswentrance to the second story of the building. Landing on the second lloor, I find myself as a Sophomore, as a student who is becoming a ttbig shot? At this point I assume a haughtier air, and I commence to take part in some major activities of the school. This Sophomore year also lays a founda- tion for the greater privilege of be- coming an upper classman. Do you remember By LEONARD GARTNEH, 33 As a Junior, I am be- stowed this honor. I con- stitute a greater element in the school life. My contem- poraries, my classmates, and I are the models of all lower eperhaps upperwgrade stu- dents. They took to us as their ideals. At last arrives my Senior era, which brings me to the last notch in my upward climb, the time when, as I said. I look back gleefully over pre- ceding years. I am now a full- Iledged member of the high school, a loyal son of the immense fraternity. During my course of four years, I follow the same routine every day. I catch the same car, with its orange color staring me in the face; I ttbum the same automobiles; I travel the same roads, paths, and driveway; I see the same faces at my side each morning and afternoon. Yet, life never grows tiresome. Something novel, some new adventure or ex- perience turns up each day which thrills me and enlightens my intel- lect. Every-Day Life Upon arriving at classes, I take up my text-books and prepare to indulge in my assigned topics. Witt we have a test? What will he give us? What year did so-and-so occur in? Down to work, study, study. But it never grOWS monotonous for I know that by following instructions I inflise into my mind new thoughts and ideas. Ah, how happy and beneficial is high school life; how I love it, and would like to live it everlastingly. Little incidents, worries and bothers, that turn up occasionally, only tend to make it more interesting. For what is life without troubles? Therefore, if I earnestly, eagerly, and sincerely get down to work, real, studious labor, each clay, I know I can make high school life really worth while. I can show to myself its finer, more polished, and brighter elements. And when I graduate and go out into the hustling world of business, I can almost be assured of tContinued on page 38l Page Twmrty-m'nc

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Rev. Hyacinth Blocker, O. F. M. Page Twenty-eight THE BACONIAN STAFF Ediior-in-Chief: WILLIAM BRUGGEMAN. '33 Managing Edifor: Columnists: WALTER SCHNEIDER. '33. LOUIS HETZ, '33. RANDOLPH BRUMFIELD, '33. Associafe Edihr: LEONARD GARTNER. '33. Exchange Edifor: PAUL ARTMAYER. '33. Fea'l'ure Edifors: LEONARD DAUMEYER. '33. RICHARD BLUM, '33. VINCENT SMITH. '34. BENNER HOEPER. '34. VINCENT LEVO, '33. CHARLES SCHWETSCHENAU. '33. Humor Edifors: JOHN LEHRTER. '33. RICHARD BRAUSCH, '34. FRANK MEYER, '34. MAURJCE NIEHAUS. '33. A1' E ' : News Edi+or: r dlfor JAMES HOBAN. :33. FRANK LEURCK. '33. Sporis Edi+ors: Typisfs: GEORGE SPITZMILLER, '33. RALPH HERMAN. '33. GEORGE GEISEN, '34. CARL WEIGAND, v33. Faculfy Adviser: REV. HYACINTH F. BLOCKER. O. F. M. The Baconian

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Journeys as IT was Saturday night in St. Miehaells. As was quite usual on Saturday night, the pews were dotted here and there with kneeling tigures. Occasionally the big, heavy doors of the church would open to admit or emit another figure. As the hour grew later, the church gradually be- came more and more deserted, until at last only one solitary iigure re- mained. The janitor came in to close the windows, yet the figure remained kneeling. Even after the priest had left the confessional and the lights of the church had been extinguished, the figure remained. Staring out of wide, unseeing eyes, he seemed un- conscious of everything about him. Raga Ged and unkempt, he presented quite a contrast to the grandeur dis- played in the Church around him. An old dirty sweater, torn at the elbows, a pair of ragged trousers, dirty and with numerous patches, :1 pair of old, dilapidated shoes, whose thin soles each boasted of a hole in its center, and a wrinkled, old felt VACATION By LEONARD GARTNER, ,33 I wonder where Iill spend my vacation? Pd sure like to find a good location. The valley, the seashore, mountain, or jungle, Perhaps pass the hours in cozy bungle. There's other things yet I'd like to do- To swim, and row, and play tennis, too; Oh, all this world I'd want to roam, But my vacation will be spent at home. The grass will have to be cut and mowed, The garden patched, and dug, and sowed, The dishes merrily clanging Illl hear, And the dishwater bubbling in my ear. The cellar gets dirty ibout once a Week, Then I use the hose till it starts to leak. So you see, I wonit have far to roam, Itll have plenty to do this summer at home. Page T11 iffy End By GEORGE SPITZMILLER, ,33 When a man loses his fiancee, his dearest friend, he feels bad; when he turns to drink and his mother and father die of anxiety, he feels worse. He becomes a bum; he falls lower . . . lower . . . hat, crumpled in the seat behind him, were his sole possessions. A wild mop of tangled hair, greying at the temples, towered above his mud- stained face, whose evident youth- fulness even deep lines and unshaven jowls failed to disguise. As the hour grew later a penetrat- ing chill gradually began to creep into the tomb-like atmosphere of the deserted church. Yet the ragged ligure was unmoved, staring straight ahead out of wide, unseeing eyes. Ned Jones was thinking . A tall, wiry old man was plowing up a broad meadow, nestled deep in the green Kentucky hills. It was springtime; the birds were singing: trees were budding; and the sweet. invigorating odor of fresh-turned earth pervaded the crisp morning air. Far up in the clear, blue sky a gleaming ball of gold cast its pleasant rays on the straight back of the man plowing below. As he trudged along, skillfully guiding the plow through the rich soil, the manls weather-heaten face puck- ered into a cheery whistle. Up and down, up and down he trudged, his steely blue eyes twinkling merrily as he whistled his jolly tune or jauntiiy directed encour- aging commands to the plodding team. The ligure in the church was mumbling . . . nGood old dad! He was a swell guy, always smil- ing, always cheerful, and always so good to mother? As he mumbled, Ned again was thinking . . . A stout, sweet-faced old woman, with snow-white hair was bustling about an old-fashioned kitchen. From the polished coal-range with its steam- ing pots to the big cupboard with its orderly array of dishes and spices, then from the cupboard to the big wooden sink, with its pump and scoured woodwork, from the sink to the table, set with its sparkling dishes, she would bustle. Occasion- ally she would go to the window facing the barn and peer intently out between its immaculate curtains. But always she returned with a dis- appointed air. Suddenly, as she stood bending over a steaming pot, testing its contents, the kitchen door opened silently, and the tall wiry old man who had been plowing in the meadow entered quietly, and stealth- ily tiptoed over to the unsuspecting woman. Suddenly without warning a board creaked, and wide-eyed the woman whirled around to face the intruder. As she did so, he rushed forward to envelop her in his strong arms and planted a kiss On her now smiling face, beautiful even under its many wrinkles. As he mused, Ned Jonest blood- shot eyes glistened with tears, and again he began to murmur . . . And how like mother was Elsie. As he uttered this last word, a lump filled his throat. Momentarily his eyes shifted, only to rest on the lone vigil light in the sanctuary and to fixedly gaze into its red glow. In those crimson rays Ned was seeing things. Pictures were outlining them- selves before his staring eyes . . . The figure of a beautiful girl ap- peared before him. Curls of glisten- ing auburn hair, sparkling blue eyes. rosy lips pursed into a smile that melted one,s heart, all were hers. Now, as the pictures passed before Nedis eyes, this exquisite creature tContinued on page 42l The Baconian