Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

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TBe AsseiviBiy fian ciqck MARGAKET THOMAS, ' 20 D BAR OLD CLOCK in the Assembly Hall, You know our troubles, one and all — Know when we ' re early, Know when we ' re late, Know when the teacher murmurs, wait, Dear old clock in the Assembly Hall. Dear old clock in the Assembly Hall, You know our deeds one and all — Know when books were stacked. Know when bells were swiped, Know when we hung black and white. Dear old clock in the Assembly HaU. Dear old clock in the Assembly HaU, You know our secrets, one and all — Know things you must never tell. Know things that would mean our fall. So keep the secrets for us all, Dear old clock in the Assembly Hall.

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sentimental stock broker, almost sighed. No Fritz here to play for you, he ventured, but let ' s have one of the old choruses that Virginia and Bob used to give us. ' Member the night you two shocked Mrs. Van Tossel by taking charge of the orchestra? So, obediently, as a wife should, Virginia Fisher, mother of three sanitary antiseptic babies snugly sleeping at home, threw off her taffeta evening wrap and began an old favorite duet with Bobby Grant, an as yet uncaptured, rich bachelor. Capes and scarfs were removed, dress suits encircled white shoulders, and the old crowd danced again at Brad ' s. Jacqueline Gardiner, dashing widow, and Milton Fisher, famous financier ; Paul de Gasillac and plump little Geraldine Leland; stately Jane de Gasillac and Peter van Dycke, casting longing glances at his finaee, Cynthia Whitney, in Norton Leland ' s arms — all waltzed once more over the old floor. It was so familiar to be there, even though the crystal chandeliers were dark, and the street light flickered outside in the wind of the night — so familiar to glide over the perfect floor, even without the justly renowned orchestra, and smiling, dapper little Fritz, hopping over the platform. It seemed to the dancers as if all the other couples who had danced all those other dances for fifty years were with them, as they waltzed farewell to Brad ' s. Snow was beginning to fall outside. The unheated building, shaking a little in the sharp wind, was very chilly on that cold March dawning. But the sixty minutes flew by with a surprising rapidity. At last the two at the piano crashed a last chord, and shivering even more than the others — not having had the exertion of dancing — turned to them. Cloaks and furs were put on, scarfs adjusted, noses powdered and lips re- touched at one of the great mirrors by the flickering light of the street lamp. Laughing a little hysterically, The Crowd, as they called themselves, began to leave for the last time the scene of their triumphs. On reaching the door, Paul de Gasillac, French and thorough artist that he was, raised his hand for silence. Instantly quiet reigned, while Paul drew from his pocket a flask. Fragrant old Burgundy, bottled a hundred years ago, con- taining all the distilled sunshine and sweetness of Southern France, it gurgled joyously, promising a large and happy oasis in the Great American desert. Solemnly de Gasillac took the crystal flask, ornamented with silver fUigree work, and raised it to the door-post. He struck the flask lightly but firmly, and the perfumed essence of beauty, its container lying in lovely fragments, trickled down toward the floor, heedlessly, a last libation to the glory that was Brad ' s. They filed slowly away, laughing and talking, to the expensive cars waiting outside. The old room was left alone to dreams and destruction.

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FRANK K. TWTTJ.TiTt , 21. ' HE SUMMER sun had set behind the western hills and the shadows, already dim, were gradually growing fainter around the little farm-house. In a nearby thicket, the wild things were beginning to disturb the nocturnal sway of solitude. The wooden latch of the barnyard gate clicked, and a taU young man, muscular and tanned from the heat of the noonday sun, walked across the yard and awk vardly seated himself on the back step. Heaving a sigh of relief, he drew a red bandana from his pocket and mopped his brow. He sat there for quite a while, fanning himself occa- sionally with his straw hat and watching the beauty of the western sky as it slowly faded into dusk. Then his attention was attracted by the sound of approaching footsteps. The smell of tobacco smoke, carried on the evening breeze that had begun to stir, told him that his father was coming. Immediately he arose. Around the corner of the house came a little old man dressed in a brown corduroy suit and puffing on a corn-cob pipe. The wrinkles in his face and the shuffle of his leathern boots told of his advance in years, but that he still re- tained the spark of youth was made evident by the twinkle in his eye, and his habit of humming old tunes. Judging from his son ' s attitude that he wished to speak to him, the father walked to him, and, putting one foot on the steps, took his pipe from his mouth. Pa, began the young son of the soU, now as I ' ve been with you since I was a little feller, workin ' an ' doing chores for ma when I was only knee high to a grasshopper, an ' then since I ' ve grown up, I ' ve been a workin ' fer you, a helpin ' with the plan tin ' and harvestin ' and feedin ' and milMn ' and a hundr ' d and two other things that I do for ma, don ' you reckon as how you might give me now that creek-bottom land yon side o ' the river, as you promised to settle on me? Old Jake Simpkins looked at his son Avith a scrutinizing eye. It was true that from boyhood Lemuel had been a great help to his parents. He had saved them many steps by his presence, for they had yet to receive his first refusal to do their bidding. Since his eighteenth birthday he had received from his father half of each year ' s proceeds in crops together with his board and clothes. Besides this regular compensation, his father had promised him the creek land, in itself a rich dowry, as a settlement. But why should he have