Toulon Township High School - Tolo Yearbook (Toulon, IL)

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8 March, Nineteen Twenty-Nine ‘ain’t.’ I won’t have such people in my kingdom.” “Oh, English, I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, English.” The great king English was thoroughly provoked by now. Even Keith, the star of the English students, begged the repeal of Otis’ brother, Ed, who had been banished for using poor grammar in the class room. “Are you in this too, Keith ? I’m surprised at you!” “Pardon, English; English pardon!” said Slang, who had taken his stand before the throne. “I will bow to the ground begging Ed’s repeal.” “I could be easily moved if I were as weak as you,” was the king’s reply. “But, fortunately, I am not. I am as firm as the court house building, the only king among kings who can say this of himself. As I have said before, Ed is banished, and shall never again enter the class room until he produces a white card and promises never to say ‘ain’t’ again.” A few of the students had separated from the rest. They stood in one corner of the room and seemed to be planning among themselves. Slang now joined them and began to speak. “You go first Woody, and we’ll show the cock-eyed world whether such an old sap as English can rule us! When you give the signal, the rest will follow.” They went back and knelt before the throne, renewing their pleas in addition to the ones already being offered. “Oh, English—” “Disperse! Would you change a man as determined as Miss Silli-man ?” was English’s reply to this plea. “Great English—” “Does not the marvelous Keith kneel to no avail? Do you not know that it is useless for you to attempt where he fails ?” English rebuked them again for their remarks. “Then speak, hands, for me!” It was Woodrow who spoke, and as he uttered the words, he shot English in the shoulder. Immediately the others followed him, the last one being Keith, the star of the English class. “And you, too, Keith? Then fall, English!” With these words the great king fell to the floor, killed by the bullet of his dearest friend’s gun. Milo entered, demanding reasons for the shooting. “It is not, oh, Milo, that I loved English less, but that I loved our school more. As English loved me, I weep for him; as I made wonderful grades in that subject, I loved him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoiced for him ; but as he was ambitious and wished to rule us all, I shot him! Are you so base that you wish to be a slave? Are you so uncivilized that you do not wish to belong to our school? If you are, I have offended you. But remember that what I have done to English you may do to me when you desire my death!” “Very good reasons, Keith, and now leave me to mourn my dead.” Keith left, leaving Milo standing over the body of English. As he de-

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March, Nineteen Twenty-Nine JUST TALK. One time while I was in the South, I was standing on a corner in a Georgia village and overheard the following conversation between two old negroes as they ambled down the street: “And dat’s not all, Rastus, ah killed a possum once’t dat wuz six’t foot frum der tip uff hiz noztrails tah der udder tip uff hiz wagger. Hit tuck all mah super-haid know’in tuh git um, Bo, and yo’ know I’se wun uff de earth’s ’riginail sharpshooters.” “Yuh don’ sey so,” said Rastus, “I’se sees nuthin’ common ’bout dat. I’se nebber shoots dem iff dey izz les than siz’t foot.” “Lissen, Black Bo,” said the first, “Iff yo all see’d a possum six’t foot frum his noztrails rite on back, you’d trabble fas’, Bo, you’ trabble fas’.” “Sey, Coon,” said Rastus, “Ah’m going’ tah get con-si-dental wiff yuh. Don’ yo all in-singe on mah coo-rageous doin’s or Ah’ll git mah ra zoo, Bo, and carve you’ so yo’ Missue don re-liz hits her husbun’.” “Keep on, Ign-ant, keep on, and yo’ll haff tah git crutches fo’ you brains. Dat’s de kind uff boy ah iz,” said the first old negro. “Yo’ izz the li’eness nigger ah know,” said the one called Rastus, “But ah’ll let you be, mah spirits ud bodder iff ah hurt you’.” “Don’ worry ’bout de spirits, Blaskie, jus dispute mah word again und you’ll be wid dem.” “Yo’ don’ sey, yo don’ sey,” purred Rastus, “Yo’ bark is wuse dan yo’ bite, yo’ couldn’t bodder a meskito, so jes’ trabble down de way. I’se no time tah lissen tah you’ braggin’.” “Well, I’se bedder be goin’ but git in you’ heaid, Rastus, I’se wunt stan’ fo’ no messin’ wid mah huntin’ pow’ess.” “Oh, dat’s all rite, Shanks, I’se know’ed all de time yo’ wu a grand ’unter but ah jus’ wunted tah be shure.” “Sey, Rastus, did ah ebber tell yah ’bout de time ah shot de alley-gaiter down in de ribber----------” And they drifted on down the street telling tales and arguing. And I wonder if they don’t represent a lot of us in life. Going down life’s road doing a lot of bragging, telling everyone what you are going to do and what you have done. But really talk without action is useless. —Roy Burcham. THE ASSASSINATION OF AIN’T. A small group of students stood in the English room where Good English sat enthroned. “Is there anything else that I or my council can do for you?” he inquired. One of the students advanced. “Oh, most mighty English—” “There’s no need of any fond remarks, Otis. Your brother has been banished and I intend that he shall remain banished! The idea of saying

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March, Nineteen Twenty-Nine 9 parted, Milo murmured: “Oh, pardon me, English, that I have listened to his reasons. But over your dead body, I now do prophesy that a curse shall light upon the limbs of men; ignorance shall fall upon the people; ‘aint’ and ‘haint’ shall be in such common use that teachers will whip their pupils for forgetting to use them. It may be that we shall even go back to the ancient sign language; and when that happens how shall the boy friend talk to his lady love?” Editor’s Note:—This is a take-off on Shakespeare’s “Julius Caesar.” The Shakespearean characters corresponding to the ones in this story are as follows: Metellus Cimber, Otis Chaudoin. Brutus, Keith Brown. Publius Cimber, the banished brother, Edwin Chaudoin. Casca, Woodrow Dillon. Mark Antony, Milo Churchill. —E. Tomlinson. I was asked to write some poetry, But I’m no poet, as you can plainly see, But this much I know, without any doubt And don’t ask me how I found out. I know Miss Silliman will eventually be A musician, in lands far over the sea. Mr. McCulloch, I think, Will be driven to drink, If some fine lady doesn’t take him in hand And tell him what’s what and rule him like an iron band. Miss Newburn, I know, will start running a show If some other place she doesn’t get a chance to go. Miss Oehmke, of course you all guess Will be acting in Hollywood in a month or less. Miss Russell, some day, will be A person of—we’ll know—just wait and see; Miss Cooley will marry some one quite great, If she doesn’t, my goodness, what a very sad fate. Mr. Hartley will some day be Superintendent of Schools, My goodness! I’d hate to see some of his rules; Miss Dewey always looks so forbidding and sinister, I’m quite sure she shall be an unusual spinster. Miss Tyler, at last, her dreams have come true, Inherited her million, and away to England she flew; Mr. Askew will dream of wonderful things, And become such an angel he’ll grow gold wings. —Clae Swango.