Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

Page 31 text:

But some there are of many a hue, With many a stitch set wrong, And many a row to be sadly ripped Ere the whole is fair and strong. There are long plain spaces without a break, That in youth are hard to bear ; And many a weary tear is dropped. As we fashion the heel with care. But the happiest, saddest time is that Which we court, and yet would shun. When our Heavenly Father breaks the thread And says our work is done. The children come to say good-night With tears in their bright blue eyes. While in grandma ' s lap, with a broken thread. The finished stocking lies. fl-njoice. O RUTH L. MILLER, ' 19 NLY A flower in the deep, dark woods. Half hidden by last year ' s leaves, A bit of freshness and beauty divine, A breath of fragrance among the trees. Dear litle flower with a heart so pure, Beautiful emblem of love ! Tell me the secret God gave you to know, Did you fall from heaven above? How many hearts have you cheered and made glad? How many souls have you healed? Seems to me you ' ve a mission to fill, In your God-given beauty revealed.

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T DORISE NORBECK, ' 20 HE SUPPER is over, the hearth is swept, And in the wood fire ' s glow. The children cluster to hear a tale Of that time so long ago, When grandmother ' s hair was golden brown. And the warm blood came and went O ' er the fac e that was scarcely sweeter then Than now, in its rich content. The face is wrinkled and careworn now And the golden hair is gray. But the light that shone in the young girl ' s eye Has never gone away. And her needles catch the fire ' s bright g ' leam, As in and out they go. With the clicking music that grandma loves, As she shapes the stocking toe. And the waiting children love it too, For they know the stocking song Brings many a tale to grandma ' s mind Which they shall hear ere long ; But it brings no tale of olden times To grandma ' s heart tonight, Only a sermon quaint and short. That is sung by needles bright. Life is a stocking, grandma says, And your ' s is just begun, But I am knitting the toe of mine And my work is almost done ; With merry hearts we begin to knit, And the ribbing is almost play. Some are gay colors, and some are white, And some are ashen gray.

Page 32 text:

AGNES ANDREWS, ' 20 OR OVER four hundred years in a certain section of Picardy the name of Monduc had been synonymous with strong men and thrifty women. It was, as well, another name for honesty, and loyalty. And, as far back as the people of this region could remember, every member of the Monduc family had been a wonderful shot. For ages, unerringly, first their arrows, then their bullets had reached the bull ' s-eye in every contest held in Picardy. But of late years, the family had gradually died out, until there remained now but one male Monduc of age. Pierre Monduc was an unusually happy Frenchman. Yes, happy even in that eventful spring of 1918. Was not his prosperous little farm far behind the battle-lines, even practically free from Gothas ? Was he not discharged from the army, minus one leg, to be sure, but plus a Medaille Militaire, and a Croix de Guerre with palm ? Was not Zenobie, his wife, amiable and kind ; not like that vixen, Mme. Dirong, across the road? Were not Angele-Marie, his sixteen-year- old daughter, and Jacques his ten-year-old son in the best of health ? And finally Avas not the Generale American paying preposterous, unheard of prices for sup- plies ? Why should he not be happy ? To be sure, one small cloud obscured the horizon of his happiness. Jacques his only son, last of the honest Monducs, was not as truthful as he should be, and was too easily swayed by considerations of material things. Still, Pierre com- fortably reflected, he would grow out of that, he was still young. So thinking, he strolled along, until his reverie was interrupted by the voice of his son. Mon pere, mon papa! les Boches are coming! Mme. Dirong said so ! Just over the hills ! ' ' and he stood panting in the hot May sunshine, pointing his finger in the direction from which the invaders were supposed to come. Pierre was silent a moment listening, but could hear nothing more ominous than the familiar faint roar of far-away guns. Then, for he had been a soldier, and had heard more than one fantastic rumor, he shrugged his shoulders. ' ' Eh bien ! if they come, they come. But a big man like you should fight against them. Go get the guns, and let us go to our lesson, he remarked ironically. The boy, flushing a bit under his father ' s irony, ran to the house for the guns. Meanwhile Pierre limped across the field of grain, into the green meadow, the site of their gunning exhibitions, and daily lessons. Suddenly he halted, and