Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

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Che Baitnnil BOBBY ‘14 A SHE sun comes up from o’er the hill And greets the dancing daffodil, Which nods along the twinkling rill, That doth the ocean help to fill. The wind comes up from o’er the mead And blows aloft the ripened seed, Which oft the little birds doth feed, That on their southern journey speed. The frost comes up from o’er the deep And puts the daffodil to sleep, Which doth its little blossoms keep, That in the spring again will peep.

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Che Chemistry Star MARY TECKEMEYER HE Chemistry class could boast of but one girl member; not because there were no other girls wanted, but because no other girls wanted it. To say she was petted would not be exaggerating in the least. Three weeks had passed since she entered the class and not yet had she been able to accomplish any of the marvelous things of which she had so proudly boasted. Everything was quiet as she sat in the laboratory, alone. Though the Chemistry recitation came next, she had not even begun the preparation of her lesson. “‘I’d like to know,’’ thought she, “‘what’s the use of learning all these old names and formulas. I couldn’t learn them in a week, much less in one period. I'd rather spend my time experimenting. That's fun. But this text-book work! Oh, it makes me tired! I wish I could discover some explosive that would beat nitro-glycerine; that would make me great; all the boys would gaze in wonder and admiration; perhaps my picture would even be hung in the ‘Hall of Fame’.’’ Thus her thoughts ran, until finally she became drowsy, and her book fell from her hands. She went to the shelf and took down a large mortar. Placing it on a table, she began filling it with first one chemical and then with another. A gleam of victory lighted her face as the mix- ture began to turn green. Slowly she stirred it, and it grew greener and greener, until finally it began to bubble. She was a little surprised at first, but kept on stirring and stirring. All at once there was a pop and a sizzle, and finally a blue vapor began to rise slowly and spread an unpleasant odor through the room. The girl now became thoroughly frightened, realizing that something dreadful was going to happen. She rushed to the two doors, only to find them locked; then to the windows, but they were too small for her to crawl through. She took another glance at the mixture. The popping seemed to be growing louder and the blue vapor increasing in volume. Cold sweat stood out on her forehead as she rushed up and down the room, unable to speak from fright. The room was now almost filled with the vapor and the sounds from the bubbling mixture had in- creased to miniature explosions. She staggered to the middle of the room, blinded and almost suf- focated. Out of the stillness, which seemed to reign for a moment, there came a terrific explosion which split the air and blew the room to pieces. She felt herself rising in the air; a sudden rush of cold air told her that she had passed through the roof. Now she was sinking back — down, down — into darkness. Would she ever reach the bottom? The moments seemed hours. Down, down — splash — and she lit in ice-cold water. She awoke with a start. Her chair had tipped backward, landing her in a tank of water, in which the class were accustomed to clean their apparatus. To her dismay, there stood the en- tire class. They seemed to be choking, and yet it couldn’t be on account of the vapor. One part of her wish, at least, had come true, for the boys were gazing at her in open-mouthed wonder.

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Spirit Lake HENRY WAJENBERG E. HAD been camping for a week, and all of us had become much in- terested in Tom. He seemed to be such an extraordinary fellow that we were constantly expecting something unusual from him. At most, he was not over thirty-five; and, though he had spent most of his time out of doors, he had much to say on every subject that came up for discussion. He knew the scientific name of every fish we caught; and none of us knew a bird with which he was not intimately acquainted. He would rush suddenly into camp, snatch a green butterfly-net from some convenient place where he had hung it, and disappeared into the a KS aN 4, bushes, soon to return with some gaudy victim which he would add to his collection of butterflies. From what we could learn from him, he must have covered most of the territory northeast of the Great Lakes and all of the state of Maine in gathering specimens. However, he had not devoted his entire life to the out of doors. He had studied Rhetoric and, though it was a mystery to us all how he did it, had found time to teach it also. This, probably, together with the vast number of in- teresting experiences he had had would account for his ability as a a story teller. Thus far, however, there had been little opportunity for him to show his ability along this line. But one morning the sun shone watery through an uncertain mass of grey-green clouds in the east and Tom announced that there would be “nothing doing outside” that day. We took his word for it and, as it was beginning to grow chilly, we hastily gathered some fuel with which to build a fire on the hearth in our little cabin. Each provided himself with a small box for a seat and we gathered around the fire. Tom sat on a bench and leaned back against the wall near the fire. It seemed that we all understood that some one was to tell a story for the benefit of the others. Finally, after all had cast several suspicious glances in his direction, Tom said, “Well, what shall it be ’’ There was a brief pause, during which we exchanged questioning glances, but finally I said, ““Whatever you choose.”’ To this all assented; so we settled down comfortably around our cheerful little fire. Outside the rain fell gently and now and then the wind soughed loudly through the trees. To most of us it was an atmosphere of charm and romance; but Tom was apparently used to such conditions, for he settled back unconsciously against the log wall and was lost in reverie. To us he seemed a very romantic sort of person, as he sat leaning against the cabin wall, his black, bushy hair partially covering his slightly receding forehead. There was a concentrated, yet passive, ex- pression upon his face, and the manner in which he was dressed lent an air of romance to his short figure. We waited patiently for the first word of the tale he was about to relate. At last he began: