Warren Central High School - Wigwam Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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Summer Vacation Preferred School Is Out I’m so glad that school is out I’d just like to run and shout, “Hurray for summer, I’m glad it’s come!” Now 1 all I’ll do is make things hum! I’ll ride my wheel and play baseball And lots of things between now and fall I’ll play tennis and see many a show And when I must stay home I’ll radio I ' ll go to my uncle’s, ride his horse a lot What do I care if it does get hot There’ll he ice cream and a swim every day Oh Boy! How I wish summer would always stay. Howard Sutherland English I Spring I heard a robin yesterday, Singing in the trees, Gaily, lightly, happily, In tune with the merry breeze. I could not catch each little word, Tho’ its voice quite loudly rang But I’m sure the message went like this, “It won’t be long till spring.” Betty Goddard English I A Good Lesson Home at night, While mother’s sleeping. To the kitchen We go creeping And the ice box we will raid Eat up mother’s cakes she’s made When we are full we go to bed And pull the covers over head Dream of dreams that never happen Then we’re waked up with a slappin’ Mother has waked up in the morn And found her -cake a mishaped form! Gertrude Clark English I My Mother My mother’s eyes are blue She has a dimple too And her hair is, oh so brown! And the curls go ’round and ’round. Jack Shepherd English 7 Snowflakes I like to watch the snowflakes fall As they glitter on the ground It is the most beautiful scene of all When winter comes around. La Verne Keith English 7 Snow It snowed last night. As soon as we awoke we could tell Even without the use of light Or the need to go And draw the curtains from the sill For there are other ways to know. It snowed last night. The world sounds different after snow With the scrape of shovels on the walk, And passersby break the hush, With the incisions of their talk. Wheels in motion as soft as time. And the click of chains upon the streets The music splinters from a chime As we heard it long ago. As we waited for the snow. Charles Glazier English III Wise Decision Oh! what thrill to ski down a hill On a wintry afternoon; But I hit a big bump, and landed, “Ker-thump!” And next — the stars and the moon! The next thing I knew, when I came to, I was lying on a hospital bed; So I decided right then (as I felt my head ) That from now on I’ll stick to a sled ! Robert Weller English 7 BEDTIME Early at night when you go to bed, “It should be nine o’clock”, the teach- er said, Because at school you are likely to blink, If the night before you don’t happen to think. Constance Acree English I Lest We Forget During these stirring days when the world’s history is being changed daily, we are constantly reminded of our glorious freedom. From day to day, newspaper headlines scream the trag- ic talk of destruction. The air waves vibrate with the news of human suffer- ing; cables hum the song of death. Our country was founded on the words, “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Although our nation is comparatively young, we have built a lasting haven for all those who love liberty more than life. Through the decades brave men and women have struggled to build this monument to democracy. We, the youth of America, become more and more conscious of the fact that we shall be the leaders of tomor- row. Perhaps in our generation we will see peace and brotherly love re- stored to civilization. By preparing ourselves we can face the future with confidence, govern wisely, and keep world peace. May we never bow our heads in de- feat, to those who dictate from warped minds, instead of clean hearts. Long may this nation be a land of hand- shakes rather than “Heils.” Dawn Steele English I The Life I Love Oh! give to me the life I love A life to be free and gay. Oh! give to me the open road That leads over land and bay. Oh! give to me the stars above And the queen earth below. All these I ask be given me And I’ll be content just so. Robert T. Wukasch English I The Sleepy Head A tousled head upon a pillow Two sleepy eyes deep blue, shut tight, The wind gently whispering through the willow And starlight twinkling in the night. The moonlight streaming on her bed Revealed the fairies of her dreams And framed the beauty of her head Her silken hair, through golden beams. Anita Case English III Ten

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The students of Warren have been fortunate in having this group of teachers to instruct and guide them during the past school year. Some of these teachers are Warren veterans and some were new to Warren at the beginning of the current school year. However, each one has accepted his responsibility. Teaching school is a great responsibility. The young people of today are the voters of tomorrow and the destiny of our country will rest with them. Good habits must be formed and knowledge absorbed dur- ing the formative years. There are approximately 1,000 pupils enrolled in Warren Central; they are supervised by 33 teachers. Nine

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There Lived InSoire Small Village By WILLIAM LEWIS There lived in some small village, in some country, at some time, a young writer who met with an inter- esting experience. The reason that there are no definite details of the event is because the records have been lost. There are many who do not believe this story. It all started in the study of a wealthy young writer. Seated at his desk, his head bent low, he was run- ning his fingers despairingly through bis hair as he mumbled, “I can’t think; I’ve sat in this hole so long. If I could only find the right words. If I stay in here much longer. I’ll go crazy. I have to finish my story — I must. May- be I’d feel better if I took a walk.” Rising from his desk, he hurried from the house. The sun had already set but a bright full moon lighted the countryside. He turned toward Knob Hill, which overlooked the village. A few minutes later he had reached the top of the hill and stood gazing at the lights below. He was startled sudden- ly by a soft feminine voice. “Hello, there. You’re a stranger up here, aren’t you?” “Hello,” he stammered as he turn- ed to see a charming young lady. “No, I have never been here before, but how did you know?” “Well, you see I visit this place quite often and this is the first time I have ever seen you here.” “I never knew before that this place held so much beauty and inter- est,” he continued trying to prolong the conversation. “By the way, how often do you come here?” “Almost every night.” The conversation proceeded halt- ingly until he finally ventured, “Per- haps we shall meet again tomorrow night?” “Perhaps,” she murmured. “Well, I must go now because I have some work to do before I retire. Until tomorrow night, goodby.” Thus they parted, and as he strolled home his thoughts turned to his writ- ing. His head was clear and the words which had been so elusive came quickly. He didn’t know then that the meeting on the hill was to be the inspiration for the story which was to make him famous. The next night on top of Knob Hill two figures appeared. And so they met night after night. Eventually they realized they were deeply in love, although they had never met except on the hill, and there was no one who knew of their friendship. Still the young writer asked the girl to marry him and she consented. Talking to his parents a few days later, he told them of his engagement. “Well, son, this is exciting news” said his father. “ What is the girl’s name?” “Eilizabeth. Elizabeth Reed.” “Elizabeth Reed!” gasped his par- ents together. “Yes, that’s right. What is wrong with that?” “Surely there is some mistake, son. Elizabeth Reed has been dead for years. While you were abroad, she was burned to death one night when her father’s house burned. Some peo- ple say she ran from the house with her clothes blazing and disappeared over Knob Hill.” “That can’t be true. I’ve been see- ing her all summer. She has promis- ed to marry me. I’ll see her tonight and talk with her father.” “I’m afraid it would do no good to see Mr. Reed. He has lost his mind and lives like a hermit in his cottage. He never leaves his house and visitors are not welcome. He believes that his daughter is still alive and claims that she comes home every night. However, if you are not sure, it would be best to see him.” Hurrying to Mr. Reed’s dark cot- tage at the foot of the hill, the youth knocked at the door which slowly opened to reveal a shabby old man. “Mr. Reed, I came to see Elizabeth.” “Elizabeth! Yes, yes, she is here. Come in.” As the young man stepped inside he was blinded momentarily by the dark- ness of the room and only dimly aware of the fact that the old man had slipped away, leaving him alone in the house. He took a few steps and called, “Elizabeth”. There was no- answer. Again and again he called, but in vain. Searching through his pockets, he found a match with which he lighted an oil lamp that he found on a center table. He looked every- where but could find no trace of Elizabeth. Heart-brokenly, frantically, despairingly he stumbled about the room in his search. In his dazed ef- forts to uncover some trace of the the girl, he fell against the table, knocking it over. In an instant the whole room was in flames; his eyes were filled with smoke; he -could not find the door; the air became thick; and he leaned heavily against the wall. Standing there, motionless, he seemed to be looking at someone who appeared before him in a whirl of smoke. “Elizabeth! You are here, aren’t you,” he gasped as he fell to the floor. “Don’t leave me now. I’m coming with you.” “Yes, come with me now. We will go to the top of the hill and look down upon the village.” No trace has ever been found of the young writer, but some people have noticed that on dark nights there are two bright lights glowing on the top of Knob Hill. When daring per- sons climb the hill to find the source, the lights grow dimmer as they ap- proach the top, until only a haze of smoke is around the summit. The Battlefield The drums of war beat louder, Through the clouds of smoke and powder. And our forces keep on beating, At the enemy, retreating. Overhead the birds are flying, While their foe below is dying. Birds of steel by man’s production. Put here only for destruction. On they come, now flying slow, Raining death on lands below. Low and soaring as the witches, Blood is running in the ditches; Flowing from those pale dead faces. Death, to all opposing races. On they come with speed increasing Never halting, never ceasing. Till the battlefield is mushy. From the blood of dying slushy. Tho’ the soldier brave and daring, Cannot help but think and caring, For the ones whom he left sadly, Who would welcome him back gladly. As he thought, he felt his past. Slip by, easily and fast, His entire life before his eyes; So sees one before he dies. He watched the flashes almost blinding, Felt the bullets sting so binding, And on he went into the battle, Where men fell as butchered cattle. Still war’s terror never ceases, Men are lying dead in pieces. Some still live, they beg and call For some kind soul to end it all But on he fights and on he will, Marching forward ever still, Till mute the drums of battle be. And peace has come with victory. Jesse Linder -d »« : Eleven