Warren G Harding High School - Echoes Yearbook (Warren, OH)

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The CAULDRON MY I C ontinued Trieste, we entered the port of Naples, where I saw lVlt. Vesuvius, though I did not know what it was at that time. We had a wonder- ful time on the trip across, although I was seasick. We landed in New York City, ex- actly fourteen days after leaving Trieste. We immediately boarded a train for Garretts- ville, Ohio, where my father and my brother were living. It was a happy reunion. When we arrived here, we could not speak a word of the English language. Therefore, when I entered the Windham Grammar School, I was put in the second grade, where- Nineteen Thirty-eight LIFE from Page 1002 as in Italy I had been ready for the fifth grade. The English language was easy, and I soon learned to speak it fairly well. I went to school in Windham until the last six weeks of my ninth grade. I shall never forget the teachers of the Windham School who helped me so much and taught me how to speak English. We moved to Warren, where I en- rolled in East Iunior, from which, in due time, I was promoted to Warren G. Harding. His- tory is and always will be my favorite sub- ject, and my favorite books are historical novels. MY CHOICE OF DOGS Ieanne Connors, Eleventh Grade There are so many kinds of dogs: one for every occasion. It is impossible for one per- son alone to have, and make use of all types. After careful consideration, and by the pro- cess of elimination, I have chosen the three dogs that I would like to have with me dur- ing a certain sunshiny day, on a certain large farm, not far from a certain small town. My first choice is a Collie, which I want in the morning when I arise. The time, we shall say for the sake of an early start, is about seven o'clock. The dog and I spend the morning, walking over the fields and in the woods in search of a certain species of butterfly found only with the help of a Collie dog. We return to the house about noon for lunch. After resting for nearly two hours, I dump my second choice, a small, shaggy, black. dour-looking Scotch Terrier into the car and drive into town for a visit with a friend. Be- ing very proud of my Scottie, I have it per- form all of its latest tricks for the benefit of my friends. Fortunately for all concerned, the friend likes dogs and is pleased with Scottie, and plays with him during the re- mainder of the visit. I have seen many pictures and read many stories concerning dogs which will, in the evening, lie upon the hearth rug at their master's feet. This idea always has appealed to me, and so, for my third choice, I have de- cided upon a large, black Newfoundland. The Newfoundland will lie at my feet upon the hearth and be a companion and protec- tion to me as I sit there by the fire and read a book or roast marshmallows Cpreferably, roast marshmallowsl. This is my idea of an ideal day with three ideal dogs. FRIENDS Burkett Mason, Twelfth Grade To be a friend, first have one. X is my friend because my sister is good looking. Y is my friend because I let him borrow my shirts. Z is my friend because I do my geom- etry. With all these fine friends, I am a very popular person. X, Y, and Z are really true friends, the kind you can trust. X's friendship is lasting: he marries my sister. My poor shirts last for- ever. Z remains loyal-I am now taking analytic geometry and calculus. The pos- session of these fine friends makes me very happy, for I am selfish and know that my gain is someone else's loss. HYMN OF EVENING Charles Russell, Twelfth Grade In the evening, just at sunset When the sky is all aglow, When the clouds are red and purple And the cool breezes blow, You can hear the distant blending Cf the song birds, soft and low. While the ,birds are sweetly singing In the woods, the fields, the sky, You can see the twilight shadows As the day begins to die. All the world is calm and peaceful Under God's protecting eye. lOl i

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The CAULDRON Nineteen Thirty-eight MY LIFE Alben Shine, In the aftermath of the thundering seige of guns of the World War could be heard a wailing cry. That was I. The greatest war this world had ever known had been over only four months when I got my first peep of day. ' Eighteen years ago, on February 12, 1919, to be exact, I was born in a beautiful valley, in what is now northeastern part of Italy, but which rightfully belonged to Austria before the World War. The village of Fontana Del Conte, or Kne- zak, containing two thousand souls, is situ- ated in a valley of the lower Alps, and at the present time is only ten miles from the unruly Iugoslavian border. Ruins of ancient cas- tles still remain on the low mountains not yet touched the village at that time. It is only today that modern improve- ments are being made. When I was six years old, I started to school. Slovenian was still the language there. The whole population was Slo- venian, and so am I. I attended the town's only school. It had six grades, but every- body was permitted to go until he was fourteen. If you did not fail, you re- surrounding the town. Modern things had pc 3 if 12 W Eleventh Grade The students' supplies were entirely differ- ent from those we have in America. The teacher used old-fashioned methods of pun- ishment. Every year the upper classes in school went to plant evergreen trees on the surrounding mountains. At the end of the school year, the town's Mayor conducted the examinations, which were oral. He asked us a few questions, and either passed or failed us, whichever he chose. My afternoons were spent as a herdsman on the mountain tops, grazing cattle. There I passed the happiest days of my life. With other shepherds I roasted stolen apples and played Koza, a native game. We climbed through tunnels in the mountain-side. These tunnels were remembrances of the World War. They, with some trenches, had been built to protect Knezak, but they had never been used. KKnezak is only a short distance from Gorizia, where much of the fighting on the Italian front had been donel. During the winter we took our girls CI had one. She came to America this year.J sledding on the mountain-side. The sleds were home-made, but could they go! During this time the new Italian regime Nl gf . Y bfxf J A fl! llx N ,fe Elin r mained in the sixth grade for three years. You went to school only from eight o'clock in the morning until twelve o'clock noon. After I had been enrolled for six months, I was stricken with pneumonia. For three months I lay at death's door, all hope being given up for me at one time: even new clothes were made in which I was to be buried. I did not have a doctor, for it was rarely that anybody ever called a doctor, no matter how sick he was. There was no doctor in the town. I finally got well, as you notice. Next year all Slovenian teachers were driven out: they had to flee to Iugoslavia. No language but Italian was to be taught in school from then on. For three more years I attended the school, and, in time, I came to write and speak Italian fairly well. The teaching there is vastly different from that of my present school, Warren G. Hard- ing Senior High. I can clearly remember my fourth grade. The room consisted of two rows of benches, one on each side of the room. Each bench could hold five pupils. The girls sat on one side of the room, while the boys sat on the other. The teacher's desk was on a raised platform in front of the room. There was one blackboard on stilts in front. Q2 had grown stronger. Daily, more and more boys and girls, friends of mine, were forced to become Fascists. They were given their colorful uniforms, and food was furnished them, if they were poor. I, myself, was nearly forced to become a Fascist, but because of my mother's strong refusal, I did not become one. I was now ten years old. Happily for me and our family, my father, who was in the United States for the third time, decided to bring us here. If we hadn't come, I would now be a trooper in the huge army of Black Shirts, or I would be in Iugoslavia, escaping across the Italian border, or I would be dead. shot while crossing the border as our neigh- bor boy was. In May, 1929, we were ready to depart. I had only a slight conception of where Ameri- ca was and what it was. I clearly remember thinking that America, The Land of Milk and Honey , was located in the sky. There was a sad parting from hundreds of friends and relatives. We rode in a wagon to St. Peter, twelve miles away, where we boarded a train for Trieste. A few days later, we boarded the new Italian liner, Vulcania. We sailed down the Adriatic Sea and entered the beautiful Mediterranean. Two days from 100 KContinued to Page 1012

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The CAULDRON Nineteen Thirty-eight GERM CITY Alice Knappenberger, Twelfth Grade Down deep in my mother's jaw, near the bone, where a tooth used to be, is a colony of germs. About a week ago these little devils found a cozy spot, down between the roots of a tooth and began to build a colony. The carpenters of the group began to build homes, and each time a nail was driven, mother felt more pain. These little germs had automobiles and conceived the idea of running them along the nerves in her jaw: after all, that saved them the trouble of building highways. lust when the houses were completed, a terrible earthquake swept over Germ City : when the survivors regained consciousness, they discovered that their shelter, the roots of the tooth, was gone. The brave hellians were not discouraged by this catastrophe and immediately began to rebuild. Now Germ City is complete, and last night the germs celebrated by having a dance, with Backy Goodman and his painsters furnishing the music. They really had a hilarious time, because they wandered away from Pain-More Inn and went up to Ear-Drum Tavern to do the Big Apple. It seems that the longer they danced, the more they swung it: and if you think that it is fun, having about fifty million germs doing the Suzy Q on your ear drum, just ask my mother. I certainly hope that these devils have worn themselves out by dancing all night so that tonight they'll take a rest and get a good sleep, or better yet, that they are so tired they'll just die from exhaustion. May the Germ City crumple, never to be felt again. THE NEWSY Dorothy Barlow, Twelfth Grade In the gray dusk of a November day, I sat in a cozy little tea room, and looked out upon a wet and woebegone world. It was raining -a fine drizzling rain, which the wind grad- ually whipped into a stinging Wet snow. People were scurrying along the glistening walks, their heads bent against the biting blast of the wind. They had but one thought in mind-shelter. Leaves, papers, and other refuse were lying in the gutters. On the pavement, puddles began to widen into min- iature lakes, through which the pedestrians splashed. Dripping umbrellas bobbed up and down in the jostling crowd, and street lights exhaled a feeble pool of light, which was immediately blotted out by the murky twilight. A little newsboy paused in front of the window and blew upon his benumbed fin- gers. His soggy cap was pulled down over his ears, and under one arm was tucked a bundle of newspapers, wet and bedraggled. He wore a sodden jacket, that had once boasted of being an olive green, but which was now faded into a muddy yellow, with dark streaks here and there. One leg of his tattered knickers had slipped down over a broken shoe. He turned and looked wistfully in the window of the tea room, and tried in vain to pucker his lips in a nonchalant whistle. His big brown eyes were fixed long- ingly on our table, but he didn't seem to see us. A tear sparkled in his eye for an instant, then rolled down his cheek, mingling with the raindrops. He caught my gaze and started abruptly. He tugged at his cap, jam- med one hand into his pocket, and swag- gered away into the milling crowd. IRISH EYES lane Martz, Twelfth Grade When eyes of laughing, Irish blue Made from a piece of Heaven's hue Dance with naughty, impish glee, Sure, they steal the heart of me. Whether a tear they hold, or smile, They have the power to beguile. Within their depths, disguised, there lies A tiny glimpse of Paradise. 102 A MELODY Birdie Mae Hostetler, Tenth Grade The sun's bright rays, with dazzling light, When shining on the sea so bright, Are beautiful, a melody To echo through eternity. A picture to treasure, ne'er grow old, And richer in value than silver or gold, Is the clear white sails on that summer sea, A picture, a treasure, a melody.