Rutherford B Hayes High School - Delhi Yearbook (Delaware, OH)

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i 2 X liDlQl.l'll'llllJZll l t i i Sophomore Boys' Literary Indian Relics ABOUT four and a half miles north of Delaware, between the Olentangy River and the Horseshoe Run, is a range of hills about two miles in length, running north and south. ln the center of this range is a small spring, tlze source of water for a tribe of Indians who, long ago, inhabited this area. I have tramped these hills for about three uyears, hunting for Indian relics, and have found about thirty arrow heads, two tomahawks, a number of grinding stones, and two spear heads, one of which is ten inches long. There seem to be three classes of arrow heads, one about four inches, the second two inches, and the third one inch long. The twofinch ones are very broad, while all the others are long and narrow. Some are chipped from red flint, and are very pretty. On March 25 I was walking near the spring, and when I stooped to pick up a large greiy arrow head, I saw two others and a spear head not four feet away, This is about the best luck I have ever had in searching for Indian relics. QTom Kirchner Belfry Pigeons Up in the top of the old church tower The pigeons fly and nest in the bower: And now and then a loving pair Are seen to fly swiftly away from there. One is dark and one is light- Oh, how beautiful when in flight! Up they fly so high-so high- Tiny specks 'gainst the light blue skyg Now they return, sad and forlorn, Flying low, all weary and worn, Seeking again the nest in the bower, Up in the top of the old church tower. -james Kellar Old Musicians In her poems The Violin Maker and The Organ Man , Margaret E. Sangster has pictured two old men who make music for the children of the poor. On a street in the slums of a large city hangs the sivn Violins Made . In this shop works an old man, very steadily and patiently. As he fastens the cat'gut, strand by strand, he thinks of the melodies that his violin may produce. He is the maker of musicg-the comforter of many a poor suffering one. On a street corner not far away, an old organ man, clad in a ragged coat, is seen play' ing an organ, whose worn notes seem very dim. People pass him with their heads turned the other way, but the children who are very poor listen day after day, not knowing that the music is very old-an almost forgotten tune. -Robert V. Main

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Sophomore Boys 'I don't know what I'm going to be from one minute to the nextf

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i i i l ilDlQLl'II'IEI5ZiXl i i Sophomore Boys' Literary Hot , On a davy in July the heat waves shimmer from the streets: the breezes are like a blast out of an open furnace doorg and the sun, high in the heavens like 1 huge glowing search' light, sends its blistering rays down to the sweltering earth. Down the avenue comes a heavyfset man, perspiration streaming from his round, red face. He mops his forehead with a huge white handkerchief, already soaking. Following after him comes an old lady, black umbrella outspread above her, trying to get some relief from the wilting sun. Then comes a group of small children, yelling and shouting, not minding the heat at all. They are barefooted and their little feet make a soft patter as they run over the burning pavement. Across the boulevard we can see a group of girls talking excitedly as if they had not a care in the world. They have no mind for the sweltering day since they are stockingless and barefarmed. Crossing the street, dodging in and out among the swiftly moving cars and getting warmer all the while, come a young college fellow. His coat is swinging from his right arm as he is on his way to the soda fountain to quench his thirst. Fortunate people with automobiles and leisure time are going rapidly toward the open country where shade trees are plentiful, and dust and hot buildings few and far between. Some have their lunches packed so they can stay out and enjoy the cool evening breezes longer. But happiest of all are the young boys on their bicycles, shirt tails streaming out behind them, on the way to a frolic at the ole swimmin' hole . The sun sinks, the shadows lengthen, and the earth starts to cool off slowly. The sweltering day is at an end. -James Moist Down in the Dumps I was sort of cold and chillyg Sort of tired and feeling silly. Some one slapped me on the back: Brought his hand down with a whack. Said he, There is another day afcoming: Cheer up, and make it come aerunningf' So if you're sort of tired and chilly, Give yourself a slap and say, Why, it's silly. -William Havens The Storm The storm is like a bubble in midfair: it bursts without heed to anyone. Its heart pours forth life for the weary plants which swelter with the heat of the sun. It is gone like the hours of the day, never to return and bring fear and delight to those who are subject to its acts. -John Stair