Spencer High School - Spencerian Yearbook (Spencer, IN)

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W 'TV' 'W' Tv 'T ' 'Y A Crow Fight. WALTER CLARK, '13, While on my way to school one sunny day in March, I noticed a large flock of crows, some sitting on the bare branches of a scrubby walnut, others flying around it. They attracted my attention, and I began to look closely, thinking they were, after the manner of crows, attacking some marauding hawk. Upon closer observation, I saw two old-looking fellows, with ruffled feathers, sitting on boughs opposite each other. As I waited, they all, save the two with angry eyes, took seats on the lower branches. Then everything became quiet... Soon, however, the chief of the tribe, a wise-looking old Nestor with sparkling eyes, and with the feathers on his head all turned the wrong way, stepped out on a near-by limb and gave three very loud and distinct cawsf' This signal the sage delivered with a tremendous wag of the head. It had the same effect upon the two important-looking fellows as the trumpet sound upon the knights of oldg for they rushed together in mid-air, and were greeted by a round of applause from the on-lookers, each crow cawing as if the glory of the whole race depended upon that one struggle. The combatants, unable to maintain such a battle in the air, soon fell to the ground, where, amid the shouts of their feathered friends, they clinched one another like two furies. V Just what this struggle was about I have never been able to ascertain. It might have been over some affair of state, or, possibly, some domestic trouble, but I rather thought it an affair of chivalry, and this spot their chosen field, where they fought for their own honor or for their lady's sake. Be this as it may, I was as much interested in this game as were the crows, and, as I took my place on the old rail fence, I imagined that I was back in. the days of chivalry occupying a reserved seat at the scene of some famous tourney. After a fierce struggle of half an hour, the more muscular of the rivals had the other on the ground, and was beating ia merry tattoo on his head, with a beak not very unlike a darning-needle. Just at this critical moment, when it seemed that the life-light was dying in the eyes of that unfortunate combatant, a smart-looking little crow with shining feathers, who I took for granted was the lady of his choice, flew down beside the seemingly conquered hero and uttered in his ear a few soft and musical tones, which, like Prometheus' fire, gave spirit to his despairing countenance and strength to his weakened muscles. Gnce more he raised his head, and with a few jerks of his slender body and a tremendous fiap of his wings, felled his enemy to the ground, repaying with compound interest the blows which he had received. Not well versed in crow athletics I never knew the name of the trick he played, but it worked just the same. It seemed to be used only as a last resort, and was so handsomely performed that it called forth a fresh round of applause from the spectators. The larger crow soon yielded to 13 '

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The Indian Chief. WALKER OOLEY, '13. Long years ago, when our land was covered with forests, among the simple children of nature, the Red Men, lived a maiden and a young chief who were lovers. The love of the two was beautiful, it seemed that all nature rejoiced with them. The stream which ran along by the village rippled accompaniment to their love, the winds which blew through the trees whispered of it to the mountain beyond, the very birds sang of it. The happiness of the chief and his sweetheart was destined not to last long, for a swift-footedmessenger reported that an enemy was encroach- ing on the tribe's hunting-grounds. All was activity. Each warrior put on his fiercest paint and his best arms, and hastened to the muster-place. There the trunk of a tree was stripped of its bark, and the figure of a man was drawn on the exposed surface to represent the enemy. Into this the warriors threw their knives and tomahawks as if to destroy the hateful foe. Time passed, the war was overg the braves returned. But not all. Among those who did not come back was the young chief who had pushed beyond his companions in a brave search for scalps, and had never more been seen. Great was the grief of the maiden when she heard the sad news of her lover Doubtful of his proper burial,fshe imagined she could see him wan- dering in distress, and denied the Happy Hunting-grounds. In her sorrow she thus prayed: Oh thou Great Spirit, look kindly upon me. Relieve me of my burden, or take away my life-giving breath. Why should this life, prolonged for sadness, be continued? Only show me where my lover lies, that I may bury him aright! Be merciful to me, wretched, and hear my prayer. Thus the maiden spoke. Exhausted from her vigils, she slept. Then a voice whispered the answer to her prayer. Arise, seek thy lover. Follow the warriors' trail to the northward till you come to the shore of a great lake, and in the path of the setting sun, follow the margin till you see a flower, the likeness of which is not on earth gthere you will find your brave. Unswervingly she followed the shore till, as the last beams of day were vanishing over the western hills, she came to where a land-slide had partly filled a ravine. On crossing she saw a strange flower. Its center was as black as the war-lock which waved on the head of her brave, and its petals like the eagle feathers in his raven locks. She knew that this Was the fiower of which the voice had spoken, and that here was her lover's grave. The Great Spirit, watchful for his children, had buried the warrior, and had thus made it possible for the spirit of the chief to enter the Happy Hunting-grounds. The rising sun, with rays of amber, showed a maiden sleeping that sleep which man has not power to disturb. The Red Men came in search of the maid. They buried her beside her lover. The flower, standing sentinel, seemed to grow erect, and the Indians wondering at the token of the gods, named it The Indian Chief. I l2

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-.-W , , T.-. ,W ......,.,, --,,.,,,,,w,,,,,,.,,W,, ,W Y A CROW FIGHT-Continued. the Herculean strokes of the little hero's natural weapong and the whole feathery flock gathered around the victor of the day, singing their praises in tones somewhat diflerentfrom the music of the spheres. They flew away leaving the conquered on the field to dieg and I, even though a farmer, dared not lay violent hands on him who had so nobly played his part in the game, although his race has been branded as a century-living corn-stealer since the days of Father Adam. The Woodland Message. CARL MAYFIELD, '13. When we have a lazy feeling, And everything is still, Except the robin singing gaily In the peach tree on the hillg When the color of the woodland Changes to a soft, light green, 'Tis then the wild flowers here and there Nod and whisper, so serene, Spring is here. Then we note that from the bogland Comes the croaking of the frogg Near at hand a small blue lizard Plays in and out a hollow logg As we sit alone in musing, We can see the green grass growg 'Tis then we feel our very heart-strings Take the echo, sweet and low, Spring is here. 14