Spencer High School - Spencerian Yearbook (Spencer, IN)

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OVER THE HILLS-Continued. grove, where he likes to play with other rabbits on moonlight nights, and will soon be looking at you from a patch of dead grass, near where he arose. Did you know that the rabbit is not nearly' so wise and cunning as his cousin, the squirrel, nor yet so friendly? When a squirrel scolds from the fence, the road ceases to be dusty, or the woods to be lonesome. You know that log road that leads back along the ridge! About two hundred yards up the road is the edge of an oak and hickory grove of great stalwart trees, now so scarce in our forests. 'Once I was sitting on a stump in this grove, dreaming of the time when the Indian glided stealth- ily through the woods in quest of more stately game than remains here now. Far down the river valley I could hear a freight train puiing wearily toward towng now and then a humming sound came to my ears, as the saw bit into a log at the mill. All at once I was abruptly awakened from this reverie by a sound from behind. I could not have been more startled if one of those Indians, noiselessly creeping up, had suddenly announced his presence by a war-whoop! I jumped down from the stump and wheeled around. Nothing in sight! Again the sound! That was mysterious to be sure! I looked up in an oak, there I saw a squirrel, running excitedly along a limb, his long tail curved over his back, and his teeth showing in angry fashiong he was scolding at my intrusion on his grounds. On my nearer approach, the reckless fellow rushed madly out to the end ofthe limb and jumped. I started to where he should alight, but no need of that, for springing to a neighboring limb, he ran down to the trunk and disap- peared in his hole. . Well! here we are on the hill above the river! I see you looking at that wedge outlined against the sunset sky, slowly pushing its way southward. That is the wild duck going to his winter home. As we go along the river, we shall probably scare one up. The duck deserves his name, for he either passes squawking over your head, or sees you as you turn the bend in the river, and flies off leaving purple ripples on the dusky water of twilight. But no wonder at his tirnidity! A hundred guns bang at him as he flies along, kin in the water may prove to be decoys and he is shot down. Each year the wedges are getting smaller, the shadows they cast do not darken so much earth. Will it ever be that they will cease to waken us at night as they fly over, or cease to prophesy spring or winter? Let us go down the railroad track toward home. We have seen but a few of the things. Some night we may see the dull old 'possum that stays in the hollow tree above Fall Creek, nor have I shown you the leaning sycamore on which the coons play. We shall walk along the bank and see the water moccasin half hid in the drift-wood and foam, see the minnows dart at our shadows, probably surprise a mink getting his noon- day drink. Let us enjoy all this while we can. The woods are being cleared out more and more by the spoilers. Some day we shall not hear the Bob White call, or be startled as we flush a pheasant. Then we shall long for all these things, but they will be gone. 16

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Gver the Hills. THOMAS CASSADY, '14. Do you take pleasure in roaming over the hills, or following the wind- ing course of some stream? Do you have a feeling of curiosity when you catch a squirrel up to one of his mad pranks, and ta feeling of interest, though probably of a different kind, when you see a half-dormant snake enjoying the first warm rays of the spring sun? Is it a delight to follow the tracks of the rabbit in the snowg to drag your feet -through the dry, crisp leaves as you walk through the saddened forestsof the fall? Yes? You are ready even now to tramp over the hills? Then we are off I We'll find the hole into which your prize pullet went, and watch the bird that flies off with your chicks. - Now we'll climb the long hill and scramble over the fence. The first thing that sees us, and the first thing we hear, is that old tormentor, the crow. As soon as his frenzied caw is heard, we know that we are discovered. Nor will he stop with one caw : soon the chorus will spread, and we shall feel like fugitives from justice. A crow loves excitement. He will caw over the most trivial thing. But let him find an owl sleeping in the top of a high beech, and his excitement knows no bounds. He circles around the tree, and calls for his fellows, and soon there are more cawing crows than you ever knew existed in the county. I was well back in the woods one day, when a tumult attracted my attention. It sounded like legions of crows, yelling as if their very lives depended upon the noise they could make. I stole up unmolested. The air was full of crows, so full I don't see how they avoided collisions, and the branches of the trees were dark with them. More were continually coming. I had just decided they were doing this to pass the time away, when I noticed one more daring than the rest swoop towards an old dead tree in the center of the ring. Then they fairly burst with excite- ment. They had a ninth inning ball crowd beat hollow. Out on a limb of that tree, calmly blinking, sat an old owl. Now and then a crow would swoop down toward him, as if to annihilate him, but never touch that bit of feathered solemnity. Then the whole flock rent their throats with applause for the daring adventurer. At length the owl, tired of this din, flew swiftly and silently away. The crows with redoubled fury fol- lowed, and I could hear them cawing over on the next ridge, where the bewildered old owl had stopped to rest. I often wonder why they make so much fuss over an owl! Probably, since he is a night-bird and seldom seen, he is considered a stranger in the feathery kingdom, and these rude and curious fellows are merely looking him over. Why, are we at the beech grove? Did you catch that flash of brown and white fur in yonder briar patch? It was only a rabbit that you very nearly stepped on. He disappeared under the reddish sumach, but he is not there now. You need not go over and look for him, for he is describing a circle, down the hollow, over the ridge, and around through the sugar 15

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A Failure in Courtship VVALTER CLARK, '13. ' V It seems that my life is not filled with a great store of humorous happenings, or else, being both by nature and by choice, rather melancholy, I have overlooked little touches of humor that have been dealt out to me here and there. Nevertheless, I recall one instance which may be con- sidered amusingg though at the time it was certainly otherwise. This was my first attempt and my last, for that matter, in the art of courtship, or, in the old rural dialect, Hsparkingf' The incident happened in this way. Across the neighboring fields there lived a country maiden, who had completely captured me. I was charmed by her subtle power, and made no effort to free myself from her peculiar magnetism. It was the one aim of my life to pay her my respects g and so I determined one Saturday -I never shall forget the day-to call the following Sunday evening. Sunday came at last and I arose early, after a sleepless night, to begin my much-neglected toilet. After working faithfully for half the day, fitting to my neck the only collar in my possession, one much too high, and adjusting myself to my Sunday coat of two summers before, and much too short, I struck out across the fields at a brisk pace, with my head full of castles in Spain that were doomed to fall in a miserable heap. The smoking ruins of burning Troy were small compared with the tremen- dous pile of air-castles that fell that day with the setting of the sun. While I was in the midst of pleasant reveries, the cozy farm-house appeared in view, and in the doorway stood Mollie looking for me, no doubt, for, as I well knew, she expected my arrival. She was not the tall and slender creature of romance, nor had she the transparent com- plexion of which poets make so much, but she was rather short and thick, with sunburned face, and hands that betrayed the milk-maid. I strode up to the door, bold as any knight that ever wore armor, and after a warm greeting was led across the threshold into the parlor. At that instant my courage sank within me. Never before had I realized that it took courage to be alone in the parlor with one's lady-love, and that that type of courage was the one thing of all others that I lacked. The very house seemed rocking on its foundations. Struggling for self-control, I staggered to the seat she offered, but attempting to sit, missed the chair. I arose quickly, however, and seating myself cautiously before that ca- pacious fireplace, looked for comfort in those inspiring flames. But without avail! My feet were,much too large, my hands looked big and red, and were terribly in my way. I sat and tried to think of something nice to say, but like Aeneas, my voice stuck in my throat, and I remained as dumb as stone. She talked interestingly, I suppose, for half an hour, endeavoring to soothe 'my disturbed mind and nerve-wracked system, but finally, tired of her monologue, she arose with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and whisked out of the room, saying that if I had come to see her Ma and 17