South High School - Tiger Yearbook (Minneapolis, MN)

Page 17 text:

Rn alliterative alphabet lUitb amiable allusions Anxious Mr. Adams holds Himself Aloof. Ardently he’s Adding beneath the Attic roof. Benignant Mrs. Bucknam with a Beam and bounce. Bestows a plum on good Boys and gives Bad Boys a trounce. Calmly Mr. Carlson in Ciceronian way. Considers what the Candidates in oratory say. Devotedly Miss Dorr Destroys the Freshman s Dark Desires. And Drills the Darlings into Demure cherubic choirs. Firmly Fervent Friedlander Fastens down the Facts. O! temporal O! mores! Where is there any Pax? Gayly we go Galloping with Glorious Miss Gale. Prestissimo, fortissimo, let not a Freshman quail! Hip! Hip! Hooray! for Hawthorne who Hustles up the game. Hark to our Hopeful Howls when we Hear His Honored name! Jove-like Mr. Jorgens is always on the Job, Judicially, or Jokingly he Joggles up the mob. Knowing is Miss Keatley, her smile is Keenest when Knaves with minus Knowledge are Kept till five P. M. La rose, L’epine, Le papillon. L’hcrbc, Lc feuille. La Vignc, It is a Luscious Language, but the spelling’s mighty mean. Merrily McDermid mixes up a Mess. We Madly Muffle noses, it might be H2S. Natty is Miss Neumann, a Nightingale of Note, She wears a Neat and Nifty hat, and Nice black velvet coat. Optimistic Olson Owns an Ordinary name. Obligingly he manages the I IGER just the same. Satirically Miss Schureman Scrawls upon our themes, ’’Janet Scribbles Such Stuff in her wildest dreams.” Trippingly Miss Tucker Treads I he polished gym, Terpsichore The second, she is so Tall and Trim. Willowy Mr. Wilson Wields a Wonder-Wand, Until the Wayward orchestra is Wax unto his hand. Young is Mr. Yoder, to hit him were but foul. But next year, when he’s seasoned, he'll hear The TIGER Yowl. Thc oMission of a Miss, Means no Malice. P»te Eleven

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abc Regular Gbing In these modern times it is the custom for a school to publish a small book which is made up of compositions submitted by its marvelously bright students. There is a set formula for these publications. There is always, of course, the time-honoied class history, without which, it seems to be understood, an annual could not exist. They always start something in this manner: Four long years ago there entered through the portals of this grand and dignified edifice a band of raw, green-eyed, pigeon-toed, bashful youngsters who were destined, in their time, to become the most wonderful, brightest, best-behaved and altogether the most extraordinary class in the history of this famous institution. They passed the character-moulding stage known as the Freshman’ year and entered into the semi-civilized state of Sophs.' And so we ramble on through the cut-and-dried stunt of the class history business. Equally, of course, there must be some poetry, and it must be written by our own dear students. If there is any nuisance at large that causes more annoyance than a rabid dog, it is the amateur poet. His stuff runs something like this: “Oft as I sit in the morning Chewing a cling-stone prune, The thought it comes without warning, ‘Oh where will I be when tis noon.’ No, ladies and gentlemen, I am not responsible for this composition. However, 1 refuse to reveal the name of the recreant who is the author. The chances are. of course, that he will be at the same table with the same red table-cloth, struggling with more cling-stone prunes, but it would never do to say so in poetry. I refrain from committing the crime of poetry such as this for I am of a very peaceful disposition. Then for the wit and humor page. It seems to be a rule that all jokes, to qualify for publication, must have had at least ten years experience before the public. This is an excellent idea, for in this manner no chances are taken with new and untried jests. A Freshman bashfully trips up to the Editor's desk and anonymously submits the following original side-splitter: Freshman: Do you like doughnuts? Sophomore: No, I do not. If this joke is too deep for any person, kindly call at the Editor’s office and we will be glad to show you the original from the book of Genesis. All that is left is the art (pronounced ahtt ). This, you may be able to understand, cannot be done in words, so I leave it to the Art Editor of the book to illustrate this division. In conclusion let me beg forgiveness for the cynical attitude I have taken on this question, but this is written against my own inclination, and if I discourse pleasantly I must have pleasant thoughts. PAUL COLBURN. ’ I 4. Page Ten

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