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

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The CAULDRON THE WEE SMALL HOURS Florence Zamarelli, Eleventh Grade Now, what's this? What is the idea of all this darkness over me? I hope no one has buried me alive! But would you think they would do a thing like this? Of course not! I know what it is. I'm awake! That's it. I've waked up in the middle of the night. Well, isn't that nice? Isn't that simply grand? Twenty minutes past four. Look at this, will you? At a time like this, when all young people are going to bed, I must wake up. Yes, and you know what got me into this mess? Going to bed at ten o'clock, that's what! Early to bed, and you will Wish you were dead. Bed before eleven and nuts be- fore seven. Ten o'clock, after a quiet even- ing of reading. Beading-that's an idea. I think I'll read-oh, no, I won't either, because that's what brought me here! I've got to get this thing adjusted. I must try to get back to sleep. And what suggestion has anyone to offer on how to drift back into slumber? I really can't start counting sheep, at my age-although I've tried it before, and it did- n't Work out so well. I hate sleep! All my life I've hated sleep! I also hate counting sheep! Imagine me, counting sheep! No, sir, I'm not going to count them! Let them count themselves, if they want to be counted, and they are not real sheep either. Someone will think I'm crazy if he hears me counting sheep. There you are-maybe I will be crazy be- fore morning. The question still in my mind is, how am I going to drift back into slumber? I might try busting myself smartly over the head with the night-light, but then there would be a bump on my head, and how would I explain that? Now-let's-seel, Oh, humiOh, yes, there is a saying They also serve who only stand and wait. I'll just wait till I fall asleep. Ohlhuml. C. C. C. KWritten to a friend while in camp? Ioe Gmucs, Eleventh Grade - Who wants mansions? Who wants wealth? I'm not greedy- I want health! This wide forest Is for meg That's my life- A C. C. C. 108 Nineteen Thirty-eight A MOVIE FAN ' Donald Conners, Twelfth Grade A picture show is a nice place to see a picture. As a matter of fact, that is the reas- on for which they are created. I went to a theatre about a week ago, with the firm intention oi enjoying the feature. A friend accompanied me. About one-tenth of the way through the film he said, Do you know, Connors, they shot this take seventeen times? I said, Yeah? Two minutes later he said, Do you know, Connors, those fountains are using 150,000 cubic feet of water every five minutes? I said, Yeah? Ten minutes later he said, This set cost S200,000. Did you know that, Connors? I said, Yeah? Ten minutes later, he said, Do you know, Connors, that so-and-so's stand-in tainted before this scene? I said, Yeah? Near the end, he said, Do you know, Con- nors, that it cost S750,000 to make the entire picture? I said, Yeah? The picture? Egad! I don't know what it Was! I know it cost fB750,000: I know the fountains squirted 150,000 cubic feet of wa- ter every five minutes: I know that one take cost S200,000: and I know that another scene was taken seventeen times. Yes, a theatre is a splendid place to enjoy a picture. THE STORM Helen Conti, Eleventh Grade Dark clouds gather across the blue, Hiding the sun's bright rays. Thunder rolls by, like the beating of drums: Lightning flares, a bright red blaze. Torrents of water pour down to earth Large glistening drops of rain, Wetting the thirsty, parching ground, Washing trees and flowers bright again. The dark clouds pass: no thunder is heard: No lightning flares: raindrops cease. All is stillness. After the rain And the storm have passed, there is quiet and peace. REVERIE Ruth Smith, Eleventh Grade Always-I shall remember The dying candle flame and The shadows moving on your lips As you caressed my name.

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The CAULDRON Nineteen Thirty-eight MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT MILKING A COW Tressa Bugnone, Eleventh Grade When I was a little girl, many, many years ago, I really didn't know how the milk that I had to drink every day got there. Oh, I knew it came from a cow all right, but it was a mystery to me how a clumsy old cow could fill a quart bottle without smearing the milk all on the outside. Another problem of mine was about milk that came in cans. I would sit for hours, trying to figure out how a cow could put milk in a tin can without even making a hole in the can! Well, I brought the matter to my father. After I had expressed all my opinions on the subject, he told me I'd have to find out for myself, he suggested though, that I try planting the CGHS. Well, I thought, you can plant a seed and get fruit without any holes in it, why milk in cans? I tried this, but no plants peared: so I started to dig to see how milk cans were getting along. Imagine not ap- mY mY surprise when I found only a few rusty pieces of tin in place of the shiny Eagle Brand cans that I had put there! That was the last straw: I went to my father and demanded to know how a cow managed her business so well. The next day I was trudging up a hill with my father: at last, I was going to know the solution to this mystery! In one hand I clutched a milk bottle: in the other, a paper stopper that I had salvaged from our last bottle of milk. We finally reached our destination, which was the farm of the man who delivered our milk. My father left me gazing Wonderingly at the cows, while he went to the house to talk to the farmer. In a little while they came and led me to a place that was all white-washed. We went in, and there waiting for us was a whole row of cows! They explained that the cows were wait- ing to be milked, and that I was to have the opportunity of milking one! I quickly pro- duced the milk bottle and put it under the cow: then I put my hands on my hips and waited expectantly - nothing happened! I glanced at the farmer, who motioned me to proceed. So I started to stroke the cow's back very encouragingly. I looked again at the milk bottle: still it was empty! Well, I was stumped. Then the farmer took me out to the yard and showed me how he got water out of their old well by pushing the pump handle up and down. Ah! I knew what to do! We ran back to the cow, and I imme- diately and very intelligently grasped the cow's tail and vigorously began pushing it up and down. The cow turned its head, looked at me, and then with a kick, knocked over my precious milk bottle! It was only a matter of seconds before I was pleading, through. sobs of disappoint- ment, for my father to take me home, but the farmer had obtained a pail and stool during this time and already had the bucket half- filled with milk. I stared, gasped, and then turned to my father. Is that the way they get milk from all cows? I asked. My father smiled and nodded his head. Yes, he said, all cows. M LITTLE JACK HORNER U-ls told by a lawyer! Bob Shoemaker, Twelfth Grade A minor, one lack Horner, who shall here- after be known as the party of the first part, on the twenty-fifth day of December in the year of our Lord l937 A. D., was reclining in a site commonly called a corner, and was engaged in the legitimate process of con- suming a pie. The party of the first part at this time inserted the first digit of his right hand, and withdrew, apparently pierced by the aforesaid digit, one plum. When the aforesaid plum, pierced by the above-men- tioned digit, appeared before the visual or- gans of the party of the first part, his im- mediate reaction was an adjudication of the act, in which he pronounced himself a vir- tuous youth. CONSOLATION Charles Simpkins, Twelfth Grade I hardly dare to breathe of consolation Or speak of comfort, to a heart so torn: Since in the newness of your desolation, Like Rachel, you must mourn. God garners what a mother loses: The purest hearts are they that earliest rest The sweetest flowers are those the Reaper chooses To lay on Iesus' breast. Thank God, your heart-break cannot last for- every Some blissful day your weeping will be o er: And when the Shepherd brings His flock to- gether, She will be yours once more. l07

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The CAULDBON V Nineteen Thirty-eight THE LAMP AND THE WELL Donna Rogers, Eleventh Grade In the early part of the nineteenth century, there drowsed in the noonday sun, a little old village, Pleasantville by name. The dirty, narrow streets crossed each other at whatever angle they happened to meet: and the houses, cropped close to the roadway with scarce room for more than a doorstep or two, gave the appearance of squalid ig- norance. On the corner of the main street and the road that led to the well, there had stood, as long as even the oldest inhabitant could re- member, an unstable, rickety, old lamp post. that was lighted every night by an unstable, rickety, old man, just as the sun sank in the west. As I rambled past that lamp post, one balmy evening, it Whispered in my ear its story, and with a wink told me of its hap- piest moments in its long, vigilant life. The night was so warm and clammy, that one could hardly take a deep breath without choking on the density of the heat. A trav- eler, dusty and weary, plodded along the street. As his eyes lifted to greet my cheery light, they caught a gleam on the rim of the well not far down the path. With a glad cry, he turned and went down to the well to quench his thirst for adventure. . . The night was cool and crisp, but a little old lavender- and-lace lady picked her way daintily down the street. Looking up at my wavering light, she remembered many things 'twere better she'd forgotten, and seeing the well in the light, she passed on to drink the sweetness of memories. . . The night was cold and bitter, but a minister, on his way to the parsonage after a late call, passed me and glimpsing the edge of the well, he turned down the road to drink the satisfaction of religion. . .The night was soft and Aprilish, and one could breathe the scent of lilacs and the jasmine flower. Two walked hand in hand along the narrow street. Passing me, they saw the well, and with a questioning look at each other, they turned to follow the path of the others to drink the glory of 1ove. As I passed the old lamp, I too caught a glimpse of the well: as I turned down the road, the yellow flame trembled, flickered, and died. THE ORIGINAL MONOLOGUE Burt Taylor, Eleventh Grade Husband and wife are discussing her experiences in a bargain basement. The husband is more interested in his newspaper. The wife begins the story: Oh, Wilfred, I had the most terrible ex- perience at Winkham's Annual Bankruptcy Sale today. I went without my breakfast so that I could get in the store before anyone else did, and I had to stand outside three- quarters of an hour. By the time the store opened, there were at least one hundred wo- men crowded around the door. Finally they opened the doors, and we rushed into the store and ran to the basement. What?--Oh, is that so? Well, women are no crazier than men. Anyhow, I rushed to the hat counter and grabbed up a nice looking hat. I dropped mine on the counter and tried on this new one. It was horrid! Most women's hats are horrid, are they? VVell, let me tell you something! I would never put anything like that derby of yours on my head. But quit interrupting me. As I reached tor my hat, I saw some big, fat simpleton grab it and dash to a clerk. I raced after her, pushing women right and left: but the clerk had it nearly wrapped before I reached her. 'That's my hatl' I yelled at her. 'I'm sorry, madame, but the first person to get an article has the right to it,' the clerk said. 'Oh, is that so?' I snapped right back. 'That happens to be my hat, and I didn't get it in a bargain basement. Call the managerl' Well, this sassy clerk unwrapped my hat and looked at it. She decided that it was my hat and handed it to me, but this other hussy grabbed it. She gave a jerk that ripped it in two. And to think that that was the hat I paid three dollars for two years ago! I was just ready to claw this boob's eyes out, when another surge of women separated us. I stag- gered from Winkham's and came straight home. SayI I heard that crack, Wilfred. Well, l'll go to sales when I want to. And that reminds me. l'll need some extra money to- morrow. lane and I are going to the Truck :Sf Hoofer's End Season Sale in the morning. 109