Wright High School - Chronicle Yearbook (New Orleans, LA)

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was badly hurt. As he was con- templating the best step to take, the girl herself settled the question by opening her eyes and looking at him. Why — er — where — she tried to speak. ' ' Don ' t worry, Harding reas- sured her, ' ' you ' re all right now. How do you feel? Oh, I remember — Dixie became frightened and ran away ! I came after you but you tum- bled off before I could reach you, said Harding. For the first time she looked clearly at him. Why he was nice, young, and had such pretty eyes and a hearty laugh. She found her- self laughing too. Are you sure you ' re all right ? asked Harding. Sure, now I have to worry about getting home. I ' m staying at the Rileys ' . My name is Rose Wal- ters, and yours? Harding Connors, answered Harding gravely. So her name was Rose, too! How suitable! I ' ll take you home. Before she knew it she was lifted up in his strong young arms and placed on Jock ' s back. Harding climbed on the horse and off they started. Moonlight walks, picnics, dances, and long days of happiness for both followed that incident. It was two weeks later that Harding received the answer he de- sired so much. They were seated in the summerhouse in the moon- light ; the witchery of the moon and the summer night had cast its spell upon both of them and they were very serious. Rose, said Harding tenderly, I want to tell you something. I saw you first at your graduation and I called you my old rose and silver girl. I have dreamed about you ever since and now that I see you in reality I can hardly believe there is a happier person living. Rose, please say I ' ve made you care for me ! Her answer was in her eyes as she raised them to his. With a glad cry he clasped her to him. My old rose and silver girl ! he murmured huskily as he held her close. LOVER ' S land ' There, is a land quite near our homes. (And yet it is remote.) A land reached not by road or path. Reached not by train or boat. ' Tis covered with grass and shrubs And flowers too, aflame; Its beauty is enhanced by Its sunsets ne ' er the same. ' Tis full of meadows, brooks and dells, Oh ! it ' s a pleasant land ! I ' ve never been there, but I know It ' s called Lover ' s Land. Oh ! Mary, won ' t you go with me And sit upon the sand And watch the moon, the sunset, dawn In glorious Lovers ' Land. C. Sadler.

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Gone but not forgotten. Dimly he heard Bill ' s voice and felt the touch of Bill ' s hand upon his shoulder. Come on, Hardie, what are you waiting for? To be locked up in this place? The girl! Who was she? asked Harding, dreamily. Girl? Which one? There were one hundred and twenty-five grad- uating. The one next to Miss Riley. Huh, I didn ' t notice any of the others. Daisy ' s good enough for me! Two weeks later the college term had drawn to a close, bringing with it the completion of Harding ' s Junior year. Harding was up in his room packing his valise preparatory to leaving college. The plan was for him to spend a month at Bill ' s country home in Hammond before returning to his lonely home up North with his uncle. As he was placing the last of the clothes into the valise, a program fell from one of the pockets. My old rose and silver girl ! he murmured. His eyes were dreamy and pensive as he fingered the only connecting link between him and the girl — a graduation program ! With a sigh he placed it in his left vest pocket and closed the valise. • • » A country road, a fine horse, a wide-awake young American. Thus the scene presented itself the great day that was to make such a vast difference in Harding ' s future life. He had been riding for the great- er part of the afternoon and, as it was nearing dinner timei, he turned the horse ' shead about. Jock, the best horse in the Wood- ward ' s stable, was only too will- ing to turn homewar d to his hay and fodder. Suddenly Jock rear- ed and his ears stood up very straight. Hi, Jock! cried Harding. Steady, old boy! Nothing ' s wrong ! He soon changed his mind though. The clatter of hoofs, a piercing scream, a young girl clasp- ing a horse ' s neck, told of a run- away, and ' ere many moments had passed the pair sped by. Let ' s save her, Jock! cried Harding, giving the horse a re- sounding blow. Jock, unaccus- tomed to blows of any sort, snorted and raced madly after the runaway. Only ten feet away from them, and with a scream the girl released her hold and fell to the ground while the horse sped on. In a mo- ment Harding was down on the ground, the girl ' s face in his arms. As he raised her, her hat fell off and Harding started as he gazed at her. Old rose and silver girl ! he cried. It was she! With trembling hands he lifted her head and leaned it against his shoulder. She was breathing ! But what to do ? They were a goodi five miles from any settlement and he most certainly could not carry her that far if she

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DISSERTATION OF A FRIED WEENIE There once was a bow wow wow, Who always asked how how , how It would feel in a frying pan. He asked ' the cow cow cow, And he asked the meow meow meow. But they ' d never been in a frying pan. He asked the quack quack quack, Who answered back back back It was awful in a frying pan. But still that boW wow wow Had to know how how how It would feel in a frying pan. So he asked the pig pig pig. Who was no prig prig prig How it would feel in a frying pan. (And this is what the pig answ- ered.) ' T ' ve never been there, squealed the pig, But iplease don ' t think me a prig. When I tell you that all my fore- fathers Fried there along with all my fore- mothers. And my race is eons older than Sam. I descend from our ' great ' father Ham And Bacon was great uncle to me. He lived on an isle ' cross the sea. But my world-renowned fame, to- day On the seasoned weenie worsts lay Where you and your brothers shall come And together we ' ll be ground into ; one. (And here ' s the interesting part.) Into the hot, black, greasy. Frying Pan We are dumped right in to feed the great god man ! And that is how how how That little bow woow wow Learned how it felt in a frying pan. Detla Jinks. A PORTRAIT The girl sat quietly and gnawed her pen. Why did not inspiration come? Others received it, some abandoned it ; she has never known it. Sitting there, she felt sure that if once it did come to her, she could write, and it would be really good. But what could she write ? That was the point; the desire to do something, backed by an intelligent conception of where the ability lay must be neglected for lack of sub- ject. She was very sleepy. Her eyes half closed themselves and the paper before her became a blur. She dared not read even now what was already there; she dared not stop making -all those queer little