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

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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

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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 IT'S THE IRISH IN ME Iohn Stanitz, Twelfth Grade You could always depend on Pat McKib- ben's turning up at the wrong time, and here he was smack in the middle of a family quarrel. Dad had just finished upbraiding Tom for slighting that ancient adage that children should be seen and not heard. Why couldn't Tom learn not to speak unless spok- en to? Why must he always show-off in front of his elders? Why hadn't he kept quiet when Mrs. Whiting said that some people weren't very clever? It would have saved many people from embarrassment-includ- ing Mrs. Whiting. That was the general idea of Dad's sermon, and Tom suffered it all in silence, expecting Mother to champion his cause, as she had always done before. But this time the front doorbell rang before she even started. Saved by the bell! Tom sank back in his chair and heaved a sigh of relief. The ar- gument was at an end. Family pride pre- vented its completion in the presence of vis- itors. But family pride didn't prevent Tom from saying, I'm sure Mr. McKibben was a Well-mannered boy when he was my age. It was this statement which Pat intercepted when he entered the room. And it must have awakened in him some far-off memory, for he shook himself slightly before he took his seat in the exact center of the davenport. Pat was a thin man, almost a frail man, but there was an alertness about him which made you realize that he was not a weak man. Fifty years had left Pat with little enough. He had his books, which he loved: but, outside of those, there was very little-a few friends, a small income, and not one rel- ative in the whole wide world. When I was a boy, Pat smiled and shrug- ged his shoulders, I lived in Ireland. Here he paused for a moment and studied the ceil- ing. My father was dead. At least we thought him to be dead. You know, he said, turning to Mother with added interest in his voice, every fall they hold fairs in England. My father went to one of those fairs. He never returned. That happened to lots of Irish farmers: they'd go over to England and die in some pub or lie murdered on the highway. Well, he continued in high glee, we never missed him. I guess, he said with a nervous jerk of his hand, I guess it's the Irish in us. Anyway that left Mother with five sons-I was the oldest. Well, sir, I did the natural thing. I couldn't stay with 110 Mother: she had too many mouths to feed already: so I ran away from home and shifted for myself. I worked on small farms mostly: and after six months, I'd saved four pounds ten, almost enough to take passage for America. Almost enough, he said, turning to Tom with a frown, but not enough: so I stole the rest. Here again he seemed to be greatly pleased with himself. I don't know Why I did it, but I did it. I guess it's the Irish in me. My, my! said Mother, and the rest of us, even Tom, remained silent. The boats in those days weren't much for comfort, especially in the steerage class. Board came free with the fare, but for the most part, it was too greasy to keep down: so for twenty-one days I lived on bread and water. We slept on deck, but the first day out, I lost my ,bedding overboard and had to sleep double or just lay on the deck. I didn't mind it at all. I guess it's the Irish in me. Well, we landed at Castle Gardens in New York. You know, he said, turning to Dad, I knew before we landed that there wouldn't be any castle gardens there, the U. S. being a democracy, and all that. What kind of gardens were there? asked Dad with as straight a face as I ever saw. Truck gardens? No, Pat answered, with just as straight a face, I don't think there were truck gardens. But then, I didn't stay long enough to find out. They sent me straight to Pittsburgh, where I got a job with Carnegie Steel. And from there? asked Mother. From there I came here, said Pat, and here l'll stay till I die. You know a body doesn't feel like moving much when he gets old. I was only fifteen when I came across. Only fifteen! said Mother. How did you ever manage it? This was as much as Tom could stand, and he suddenly piped up, Oh, that weren't nothing. I guess it's the Irish in me. It is here that my story ends. Dad and Tom are out in the Woodshed. 'A LITTLE NONSENSE . . . ' IReply to Parker! Eli Goldston, Twelfth Grade Goils seldom tries flirting I Wit guys what has nerting.