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

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The CAULDRON CHINA DOGS Eoline Newhouse, Twelfth Grade My, what darling puppies those are on your bookends, exclaimed Eleanor, as she noticed the Scotties which were painted on the bookends in the window seat. Yes, they are cute, I mumbled, while my mind wandered back to the time when a black and tan terrier had accepted that win- dow seat as his own. When l turned the corner on Dickey Ave- nue that Wednesday evening on my way home, I noticed the usual crowd of neighbor children gathered before our house. As I drew nearer, I saw my brother pick up some- thing from the street and put it into a box. This didn't seem strange, because he had to clean up the yard every so often. My sister saw me coming, so she and her friend, Eileen, came to meet me. Their sober faces nearly made me laugh, but, for some reason, I didn't. Eileen uttered the first and only words which I heard, Eoline, Rip got run over by a truck, and he's dead. At first the Words meant nothing, but as I realized the meaning, a lump arose in my throat, and I began to tremble. I was con- scious of a wild desire to cry and scream. My pal had left me! No more would he aggravate me by jump- ing on me and licking my hands and face. No more would he carry my clothes from my room to the living room. No more! Even as I write I can hear him scratching at my door and whining for admittance. And now-now we have china dogs in his favorite haunt. AUTUMNAL SPLENDOR Bill Dailey, Eleventh Grade The beauty of autumn is Without peer, It's the most wonderful season of the year. What mortal has ever escaped its spell? What other season is loved so well? With its myriads of tinted leaves, Its dusky harvest stacked in sheaves. Its air, so crisp, so clear, so keen, Its tangy breezes so fresh, and so clean. Oh, where can this splendor be surpassed? Drink deep of this beauty: it fleets by so fast. No other glory can so permeate all As the wonders of nature displayed in the fall. Nineteen Thirty-eight THE PATRIOT Bert Smith, Eleventh Grade The Patriot. That is the name written across the face of my noisy little alarm clock. If you were to enter my room, you would immediately look around to find the source of that cheap, loud ticking. Big Ben ticks along like a stream on a mid-summer night, but Patriot just doesn't care how nerve- wrecking he is! Sometimes he will tick for hours in his undignified manner without disturbing a soul, but all of a sudden he will stop and ut- ter a jerky sound. lust as you're about to leave your work and rush to him, he will go on ticking in the most unconcerned manner. The Patriot must be humored a little. He is a cripple. One morning while faithfully do- ing his duty, he slipped and fell off the dresser. As a result, he lost his right leg. Poor Patriot could not stand well on one leg, and it was not long until he had the ill fortune of a second fall. This resulted in the loss of his left leg. He seems to be a hardy chap, and with the exception of breaking the glass covering his face, a mishap which gives him a cross-eyed appearance, he has withstood them well. The other day Patriot became ill. His heart refused to tick. I consulted my friends and inquired what to do. They told me that perhaps he needed oiling. So I poured oil down his back in a large dose. He recovered from the sickness but was slightly discolored. So please treat him kindly. Cure For What Ails You Gloria Brogneaux, Eleventh Grade You float through the streets Creating a breeze With the assistance Of energetic knees. It's wonderful fun And the best exercise. Your spirits soar To the bird that flies. The wind whips your face, Blows your troubles away. Independence is yours, Once you get under way. Oh! There's nothing so grand With the coming of spring As to join all youth And go bicycling. lll

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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.

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The CAULDRON Nineteen Thirty-eight WOMEN'S POCKETBOOKS Costi Mandrean, Eleventh Grade Most magicians appear on the stage, but did you ever notice all the magicians in pub- lic? I refer to the women and their pocket- books. Now, most women carry a lot around in their pocketbooks, but I don't think there is anyone who beats my mother-unless it's my sisters. Gosh! It's amazing how much they stuff into such a small space. But is it such a small space, when one comes right down to it? From the size of some pocket- books, they should more rightly be called suitcases. l'll bet four or five men's bill-folds could be made from one woman's pocket- book. When in a store, did you ever stop to watch a woman make a purchase? She buys some little article, and then she starts fishing. First, out comes the compact, then handker- chief, memo pad, and pen. Next comes the letter she forgot to mail: then the one she re- ceived yesterday. She keeps fishing, and proceeds to haul out some snapshots, lip- stick, keys, matches Cif she uses theml, cleansing tissues, souvenirs, and a hundred more things. Oh, yes, finally from away down deep in a forsaken corner, she brings forth to the light a small, undersized, two-by- four-of all things to have in a pocketbook- a change purse! So she won't have to re- -ceive pennies back, the lady usually fishes around once more for a penny, which she finds covered with powder. fThat happened the day the powder spilled.D She finally hands the money to the clerk, and receives her purchase. Oh, it's so small. Where can I put it so I won't lose it? You know where it goes? Right! Right into her pocketbook. After that, she has to gather and replace in her pocket- book all the necessary little items she has strewn over the counter. During the course of action, she is likely to spill some of them, and this just adds to the general confusion. Gradually, however, she is through with her shopping, and away she goes on another jaunt. I always wondered why women complain that shopping makes them tired, until I found out why. Who wouldn't be all in after an ordeal like that? My Mother makes a resolution every so often that she is going to give her pocket- book a thorough cleaning. By the time she has finished the ordeal, she seems to have as much in it as when she started. You know the old excuse, Well, I really couldn't throw this away, and I just know l'll need that and Il And so on all through her thorough cleaning. Edison invented a great many wonderful things, but I wonder if any of his inventions were as complex as a woman's pocketbook? REDISCOVERED CHARM Mary Pater, Twelfth Grade It was one of those miniatures which peo- ple come across when they go through the process of cleaning attics. lust another dis- carded picture to me: but through force of habit, I rubbed my sleeve over its dust, gave one glance at it, and with a toss of the wrist threw it back with all the other junk. But, let's have another look. Now, where is that thing? I threw it here just a minute ago. Here it is: now to get this dust wiped off bet- ter- Why, how sweet! It was an old tin type that had begun to fade, but as yet none of its charm had been lost. A very pretty girl looked up at me from the miniature. A white tucked dress fell in graceful folds from a sixteen-inch waistline. fHer figure, needless to say, was of the hour-glass typed The locket about her neck rested on exquisite 112 hand-made lace. A lovely round face ex- pressed the charming sweetness that could come only from one who must have been sweetness itself. Coils of thick black hair were held in place by a large silk bow. One hand rested quite daintily on a nearby ped- estal, while the other held a few loose flowers. A charming picture, indeed. This must be one of mother's young girlhood friends, l thought. But her eyes-where had I seen them before? Could it be-but no, that was ridiculous! Those were-why, those were my own eyes into which I was staring! But it couldn't be, because how would I have ever achieved such grace and quaint beauty, or above all things that hourglass figure? Why, how could I-oh, now I remember: this is the lost picture of mother that she said I re- sembled so much!