Van Buren High School - Van Yearbook (Van Buren Township, IN)

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THE VAN OF 1932 A ROMANTIC FOOL When the moon comes over the mountain, my love for you engulfs me. I am carried away on the moon-beams to a distant land, where you are queen. You sit on a beautiful throne all made of diamonds, while your face is like some beautiful flower in itself. Your lips form a most perfect arch, as beautiful as the rainbow itself. Your eyes beam out from that perfection of features as two stars shining in the blue sky. Your nose, a tiny turned up thing, is just one more thing to complete this perfection of features. You are to me, the most beautiful person on earth. Well, I always have heard that love was blind so, that accounts for that. -Author Unknown. WITHOUT'S A man without a country, THE SONG OF THE ONION Carrots get by on their color, Spinach gets by on its rep, Lettuce or beet, for vitamines eat, But give me the onions for pep! Silver-skinned onion or Spanish, Or little ones, green on the top, They build up physique, make you strong where you're weak, But socially cause you to flop. For even the mildest Bermuda, Cannot be forgotten when gone, It is not erratic, but very emphatic, Its melody will linger on. -Apologies to Grey. THE THREE STORY STEPS fAnswers received on Eng. testi 1. Introduction tells what your story is to be about. 2. Main incident or body tells what happened. 3. Confusion tells how it ended. A king without a throne, A boy without a doggie, A dog without a bone, A navy sans a sailor- An army with no tents, These things are bad, But have you had A teacher minus sense. Wilma was out for, a ride in the country. She saw a swamp where cat-tails were growing. Oh, Shorty! she exclaimed, Look at the hot-dog garden . It was a summer day in winter, The sun was shining bright, A bedbug hopped a jitney bus, And rode out of town that night. The kinds of gender are: feminine is a male man, masculine is a female, neuter is both, and common is neither. fAnswers received from a student in Mrs. Marks seventh grade English class.J Come on and fight, Johnson, let's fight! -Charles H. Page fifty-scvcn

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THE VAN OF 1932 WISE AND OTHER Y's THE SONG OF THE NIGHT Under the stars when the soft dew falls And the fireflies in myriads gleam, The Wanderer lies down next to Mother Earth To find rest that's divinely supreme. A soft breeze stirs the leaves of the trees, And they sing with a caress in each note A lonely refrain, that soothes the pain And eases the ache in the heart. As time goes by the moon rides high, And casts her silvery light On the little gay brooklet, that sparkles and shines And joins in the song of the night. The chirp of the cricket, the hoot of the owl Are hushed with the coming of the day, The great red sun rises up in the east The Wanderer must up and away. As he goes, in his heart, he surely sings- Surely sings with all his might, The song he heard the night before, The beauteous songi of the night. -Bertha May AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE A hungry dog once wandered Into a butcher's store, The butcher threw some sausage, To the dog, upon the floor. The butcher said, Now eat it , The dog said, I decline- For in that link of sausage, Is an old sweetheart of mine. MEOW! Poor Uncle, he's so awfully deaf He can't hear the magpies chat, And once he said his evening prayer While kneeling on the cat. -Wib Lassell Don't I know it? --Helen Page fifty-six

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4 nn I :- THE VAN OF 1932 J AN EGGSCELENT SUGGESTION Anent the state bird. She is in your back yard and she is an egg producer. She is not eggs-otic, but nativeg she is typical of the real In- dianian. She riseth early in the morning, she picketh where she scratch- eth, and goeth about her business of producing the egg end of ham and eggs. She cackleth after she layeth, and sometimes she lieth. She is aristocratic, she bringeth forth her young and turneth them over to a coal oil lamp nurse to be brought up, leaving her hours free for afternoon bridge and tea fights. She stayeth in her own back yard tif she can't get outl and is content, and nothing tickles the palate of mankind like a nice fried egg from a contented hen. She is not eggs-acting in her de- mands. All she wants is to be let alone in her pursuit of happiness, fish- worms and grasshoppers, and a place to scratch whether it itches or not. When she passeth on to that bourne from which no hen returns, she sets an eggs-ample to her posterity by leaving behind a trail blazed with chicken and noodles. Um, boy! I believe I am not eggs-aggerating when I say that life Without eggs would be eggs-asperating, so let us, by all means, raise the hen to the eggs-alted position of the official state bird. Mrs. Piety asked her husband to copy the radio recipe one morning. The husband did his best, but got two stations, one broadcasting setting up exercises, and the other, the recipe. This is what he got: Hands on hips, place one cupful flour on shoulders, raise knees and depress toes, and wash thoroughly in one-half cupful of milk. In four counts, raise both legs and mash two hard boiled eggs in a sieve. Re- peat six times. Inhale one teaspoon of baking powder and one cupful of flourg breathe through the nose and exhale and sift. Jump to a stride, stand and bend the white of an egg backward and forward overhead, and in four counts make a stil? dough that will stretch at the waist. Lie flat on the floor and roll into a marble the size of a walnut. Hop backward and forward in boiling water. In ten minutes remove from fire and dry with towel. Breathe deeply, put on a bathrobe and serve with fish soup. Oh, Iva, you are always making up something?-Amy Page fifty-eight