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

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The CAULDRON Nineteen Thirty-eight DANGEROUSTHHULL Robert Gauchat, Tenth Grade The tiny yellow monoplane climbed higher and higher into the blue sky. People in the grandstand craned their necks, waiting in thrilled expectancy for the sight of the para- chute jumper hurtling dizzily downward. In the rear cockpit of the plane, whistling merrily, sat a tall, blond, muscular young man, the object of all the curiosity and ex- pectancy of the people be- low. On the glaring posters which advertised the air show, he was called Pierre de Voyer, the greatest liv- ing parachute jumper of the universe. In real l i f e , Pierre was lack McGuire from Topeka, Kansas. The alimeter of the plane showed that they were still climbing gradually higher. 1800 feet, 18501 it certainly was taking a long time to get to the proper height. 1900, l950, 2000 feet: it was time for lack to make his jump. He climbed nimbly from the cockpit to the wing of the plane, and, while even the at- mosphere seemed charged with tense ex- pectancy, he jumped. , He was careening dizzily through the air. One, two, he counted. The audience below gazed open-mouthed at the tiny speck so far up there which was coming swiftly toward them. Three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten: lack pulled on the ripcord, ex- pecting the chute to open immediately, but, much to his surprise and alarm, it remained closely folded. He tugged repeatedly, but with no success. He was getting dangerous- ly near the earth. The audi- ence began to squirm rest- lessly. A young child whimp- ered. Mechanics looked at each other nervously. This was more than any of them had expected. In desperaion, Iack pulled once more with all his strength on the tiny piece of cord which con- trolled his life. If it did not open-he tried not to think of it. Puff! A tiny speck of white appeared above lack and, gradually becoming larger, looked like a giant mushroom floating gently down to earth. With a sigh of relief, lack settled himself for the slow descent to the earth, knowing that Pierre de Voyer, the greatest parachute jumper of the uni- verse, had given the spectators more than just an ordinary thrill. A LONDON FOG Thomas McGeary, Tenth Grade He wears a gray cloak. He is sullen and silent. He blinds you. His clammy arms enclose you in a damp, uncomfortable embrace. He waits at street corners to pounce upon you with unnatural, ghostly figures. Cunningly he spurs your imagination to a gallop, until you have suffered a thous- and encounters with his weird figures. The aviator hates him but does not fear him. The cab driver curses his headlamps which will not pierce him. When boats collide and sink on the Thames, he chuckles, knowing they are victims of his evilness. He is Mother Nature's worst child, the black sheep of her family. When the changing breeze forces him away. he only smiles: he knows he will be back. IREMEMBER Iames Cronberger, Tenth Grade I remember when I was five years old, I remember when I believed just what I was told, I remember how I waited for Santa to come. I remember Cdon't you?J how I'd sing and hum. I remember when Christmas morning came, How I'd rush down the stairs and look for my train. Alas! Those days are left behind, But always I'll still have those sweet mem- ories in mind. STUNG Harris Smith, Tenth Grade I am stung, and I cannot see: I was bitten by a bee: I was mindin' my business, kind o' like When he went on a sit-down strike. 113

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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!

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The cAULDBoN WAVES lim Stanitz, Eleventh Grade The only cmd scarcely audible sound came from the creaking oarlocks, and dead silence that is found only in a haunted cemetery prevailed. The heavy fog drifted silently past. No glimpse of land could be obtained through the hazy atmosphere. Where were we, you ask. At the time, we would have listened gladly to the answer: we were literally lost in a fog-a very, very thick fog. We had been night-fishing nearly a half mile out upon a calm, serene Lake Welikit, on a moonless night-our only communica- tion with land being the barely discernible lights of the small village. Suddenly the wind shifted, bringing with it the dreaded fog. We rowed frantically towards the invisible shore, or rather, where we thought the shore to be. The breeze which had caressed our bent backs was now ,blowing full in our faces. Had we been rowing in a circle? Had the wind changed its position again? Were we getting farther and farther from shore in- stead of nearer it? We didn't know: we were afraid to think. The wind blew harder and harder. We hoped it would make the fog lift. For two hours it blew softly, but it seemed to do no good. Try sitting in a small dingy for two hours in a fog, and I'll warrant you'll not feel so well. The boat began to rock! Waves were ris- ing from a heretofore calm surface! They came from the left or starboard side, and as all waves flow toward the shore, we drifted easily to safety. Is it strange that the word waves re- minds me of something? I think they saved my life-or at least an uncomfortable night. MY MOM Elizabeth Dilley, Eleventh Grade It seems as though you always know Iust how things are with me, And how it is to be so blue: When things go wrong, you see. It seems like heaven to be able To pour my troubles out To one who always understands The things that make me pout. But even though you do your best And try and try to see, Not even you can undersand What you have meant to rne. 114 Nineteen Thirty-eight SUICIDE POSTPONED Eli Goldston, Twelfth Grade The cluster of spit spiraled down for sixty or seventy feet and then splattered on the muddy surface of the river. The little flirt! he muttered. Here we were just about going steady and . . . He paused to spit again over the side of the bridge. It's that darned Bill Jones with his Ford and his wavy hair, the dirty skunk. But I'll show them both. Wait'll Marge reads the papers. 'Youth Dies for Love', or maybe, 'Faithless Sweetheart Blamed for Suicide.' Then she'll appreciate my carrying her books, and doing her geometry, and writing poems about her. He grasped the railing firmly and took a last, lingering look about him. A girl in a red dress with a large straw hat was coming across the bridge. Was it SHE? His hands relaxed while he tried to ascertain who it Was. Then he recognized the pretty blonde with the big, blue eyes who had just moved in across the street. He was rather glad it wasn't Marge. Someone had said this new girl was a swell dancer. She looked about sixteen. Hello, there, she trilled. Why, hello, he answered. He straight- ened his tie. You're on your way home, aren't you? I was just going that way my- self. Do you mind if I walk a1ong? Marge never looked that cute in a straw hat. EVERYTHING STOPS Connie Senes, Twelfth Grade He is sitting by the window, gazing out now and then into the almost silent street, silent except for the murmuring rain which falls around the solitary street light, like a silver gauze veil. Once in a while a quiet figure passes like one in mourning, with head lowered to avoid the rain. The trees, swayed by the light wind, crudely knock their ,bare branches against one another. As he gazes into the Warm lights from homes across he way, he lights vanish, some at once and others by degrees: and his clock on the mantel ticks onion. The radio is low, and from it comes the haunting, me- lodious tune of Wayne King's orchestra play- ing, My Rosary. Soon the clock stops, the radio stops, the rain stops for our friend, since he has gone to sleep.