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

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We Three A tree, a book, and me, To-getlier just we three. We sit and think all day, And slowly our minds wander away Into lands so strange and fair, While narry a living soul is there. The soft sweet climbing flowers Cling to-gether in guiding bowers. We three, we follow that lovely path, While birds and bees, sing and laugh. Oh! such a wonderous glorious land, That we three explore hand in hand; Come and join us some fair day, We’ll take you to that land away. Violet McVay English VI On the Radio I turn on the radio and what do I hear, Just drink 7 Up and Hires root beer, Oh drink Coco-Cola (the pause that refreshes,) And use Ivory Flakes to wash stock- ing and dresses, Take Lydia Pinkams for vigor and vim, Drink Welch’s grape juice to keep young and slim, Firestone tires are the best of non- skids, And Luckies are always the highest in bids, Jergens lotion for soft white roman- tic hands, Artie Shaw and Glenn Miller the swingiest bands, Gene Krupa will give you some taps on his drums, .And Horace is sure to sell you some Turns, Thom morning till night this talking goes on, I think that I’ll put this radio in pawn, I’ll go in the woods and sit by a brook, I’ll live like hermits in a cool shady nook, No radio can possibly bother me there, For only the birds will wing through the air, I’ll find quiet peace and happiness too, But I’d miss the good programs and that wouldn’t do, SO ' I guess I’ll just stay here where I am, And take my chance listening to a ham. Sally Wallace English VII VARIETIES IN VERSE The Silly Snowman Spring Once there was a snowman Stood outside the door Though he’d like to come inside And run around the floor: Thought he’d like to warm himself By the firelight red; Thought he’d like to climb up On that big white bed. So he called the North Wind, “Help me now I pray.” I’m completely frozen Standing here all day.” So the North Wind came along And blew him in the door. And now there’s nothing left of him But a puddle on the floor. Joan Fry English III “When I Grow Up!” I have so many things to do — - When I grow up! I’ve always dreamed of traveling To the far, far west. And see the Golden Gate in grandeur To be California’s guest. When I grow up ' Here is the mecca of the West, Filled with fruitful farms, And as my flying carpet lands, I’m entranced with all her charms. In this fairyland of beauty, I’ll have to climb a mountain And feel the vigor of the air And earn life’s everlasting fountain. When I grow up! Ah, ’tis but just a dream — A childish whim of mine, But just the same I may sometime take That westward trip so fine! When I grow up! Yes, I have so many things to do, When I grow up! Jean Witte English VI A FACE Her face is all a-glow and her eyes flicker and dance; you can tell she is happy. That is the kind of a face I like to see. Margaret Harper English II Oh! The beauty of the springtime When everything is fair When trees all around us Have time to change their hair From shades of darker colors To those of brighter hues, And the morning all around us Is filled with drops of dew. Don’t you love to wander Through valleys and o’er hills, And see the beauty of the woodland. The color on the rills? And hear the merry laughter Of children here and yon, And see the glorious splendor At the sinking of the sun? Christine Settles English IV My Secret In the dull glow of the evening We pause on a busy street, Only my heart knows the beauty Of the moments when we meet. You talk of silly little things, Politely ask, how I fare, You do not know this heart of mine Longs to tell you how I care. If ever, when we meet at dusk In the twilight’s magic due, And you would guess my secret, I wonder what you’d do? Jo Ann Oldham English IV Mike Mike is a child’s dog. He is a Bos- ton Bull Terrier. His color is a de licious black with brown hair streak- ing through it, and he has snow-white hair on his toes and around his broad, strong neck. His muscles are as hard as rock; it stimulates your heart to see them ripple when he runs. He has a cute little tail about two inches long and ears that never stand up. He is twenty inches high and runs like the wind. He has a sweet pug nose that wrinkles when he pipes up with that mellow voice of his. Drelldon Greene English II ' Twelve

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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

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My Dollar Watch I woke to look upon a face, Silent, white and cold, Oh friends the agony I felt, Can never half be told. We lived together but a year, Too soon it seemed to me Those gentle hands outstretched and still. That toiled so long to me. My awakening thoughts had been of one, Which now to sleep had dropped T’was hard to realize oh friends, My dollar watch had stopped. Joan Clark English I Bidding Farewell All the folks in the small town Turned out in a great big way To bid farewell to local boys Who were aiding the U. S. A. The boys said “Don’t be sad my dar- ling I won’t be far away It’s only a year my darling It’s for you and the U. S. A.’’ Regina Phillips English III Mary’s Cold Mary had a little cold. It settled in her head And everywhere that Mary went, That cold was sure to spread. It followed her to school one day There wasn’t any rule. It made the children cough and Sneeze, to have that cold in school. The teachers tried to drive it out They tried hard but “kerchoo” It didn’t do a bit of good For the teachers caught it too. (With apologies to Mother Goose) Esther Mae Rawlings English VI BEAUTIFUL GIRL Once there was a beautiful girl, A mixture of ruby and pearl, Since I like her a lot And she likes me not, It’s the end of a romantic swirl. Bill Keller English 7 I Long To Be A Pirate I long to be a pirate, And roam the misty sea, And bring back some money, To buy a loved one for me! I long to be a pirate, And roam the misty sea, And bring back some money, To marry the loved-one and me! I long to be a pirate, And roam the misty sea, And bring back some money, To feed us, all three! Jimmie Winniger English 7 But I, I Just — Poets write poetry, And artists draw, But I, I just — Authors write books. And teachers teach, But I, I just — No matter how hard I try, I find it’s a very great task To do my bit, for the world. But musicians still play. And preachers preach. But I, I just — Frieda Schmalfeldt English VI Rain on the Roof Do you know of anything more en- joyable and peaceful than rain on a roof? I don’t believe there is. Every- one of us has gone up in the attic on a rainy day and heard the rain beating on the roof. If you are lucky there might be an old sofa or bed by the window. Here you can read or just lie there. If you don’t watch out you will probably go to sleep. When you are on a train it is very easy to go to sleep because of the constant click of the wheels on the tracks. This is the way it is when the rain patters on the roof. If you have a metal roof, the sound is greater and you can hear every drop. When a gloomy, rainy day rolls around, and I don’t have anything else to do, you will find me in the attic listening to the rain on the roof. Earl Click English II Trip Troubles By DON IRWIN It was a nice cool day, about 90 de- grees in the shade, when we started on our trip. Our car was a mess with skiis, toboggans, and about everything from footballs to tiddlewinks. We even had our tooth brushes. After we got the car loaded we could not get in, so we unloaded it, and got in the car. But then we could not get the car loaded, so we called a neighbor and he loaded the car for us. We started and talked about how much fun it would be to be out in the woods and away from everybody. When we got to a place where we thought would be a good place to camp it was dark. So we started to get out of the car, but we couldn’t. After we had tried for about an hour and 52 and % minutes and three ticks we got out. Yes, we fell out. Then we couldn’t find baby sister so we started looking in all the trunks and we found her in the third one in the anterior dorsal section of the car. She was asleep. We started to set up the tent, but during the winter, mice and rats had eaten holes in it. Just as luck would have it, it began to rain, so we slept in the car that night. We got up the next morning with the stiff neck. When we looked out we discovered we were approximately 6,782 feet from home, so we decided to go home and eat in the back yard. Off we started, but when we got there our neighbor was burning trash. The wind blew the smoke through our yard so we went in the house and ate. Dad said that next time wc go on a. trip he is going to take the house, but I do not think we can because we have a basement and we can’t take the basement and it is fastened to the house. Girls Girls are the funniest things To hear them talk they have halo and wings They paint their face with rouge and stuff And then nearly wear out a powder puff. Girls do this just for the men But when they see one they raise their chins. And they talk about the Indian paint- ing his face I think Indians and girls run a very close race. J. R. Burton English I Thirteen