Wyandotte High School - Quiverian Yearbook (Kansas City, KS)

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ncesfofzs Q Glaoosewnem IN one of those rare moments of leisure, so infrequent these days, I had a sudden urge to take a glance through our family album. A glance would have probably squclched my sudden urge had I known what was com' ing, but being one of their bewildered offspring I was curious as to just whom I might blame for my abundance of undesirable traits. Always before I have been afraid to look for fear of what I might see, but with the book before me I drew a deep breath and opened it. Horrors, could it be true? Was that creature really my ancestor? Oh, no, probably just a friendly neighbor, but that mustache certainly made him look anything but friendly. Wait, who's this? Good grief, how does this poor creature breathe? She must be about two inches wide and one-half inch thick at her waistline. I was beginning to feel rather strange and the next ancestor finished it all. Her hair was done in battleship style with roses instead of cannons as decor' ations. I do believe she had enough hair to furnish goatees for all the navy's goats. Feeling rather depressed I gladly put the book back in its proper place and went to console myself on this unfortunate discovery. As I glanced into the mirror, the thought of my an' cestors came back to me. If I could choose my ances' tors how would I have them? First, none of them would have old straight hair that refused to lie in waves even after the beauty operator wore her fingers to the mar- row trying to make it look at least presentable. No, they would all, from grandpap to baby Susie, have beau' tiful curly hair. Further, they would all have small straight noses, not one that humps and bumps its way along to the end. Taking further inventory, they would have dainty teeth of pearls. No horse teeth in my ancestors. They would be famous, toog men of brawn and brain. Great statesmen, famous doctors, dramatic actors, lullabyf ing crooners, lightffooted tappers, and perhaps even a president among our ranks if the period were not too pressed with political and economical problems. Of course we must not omit Uncle Zekiel and all his millions. Good old Uncle, the family seemed to like him best. My mind began to stray a bit, as it was in the habit of doing, to Uncle Zekiel and his lovely home, in which I played the leading role as favorite niece. I have al' 6 A glance at a family album is sometimes disastrous so why not hand-pick them as does Marioriefsimmonsi in this interesting sketch. ways wanted to be somebody's favorite something, either pet or prize exhibit, so at last my wish was granted. In my thought I went to spend the summer with Uncle in his lovely home. It was the day when all the ladies wore great hoop skirts that swished and rose with every step. I could fairly picture myself in this costume, strolling in the garden manipulating the contraption when going through doors and getting in and out of carriages. The picture was perfect until the thought of dinner crossed my mind. How on earth would I ever manage to get that hoop and all the skirt under the table? I could visualize myself as I sat at the table with my skirt standing up in front of me like a backstop for a baseball game, hiding not only me but my plate as well. By the time I managed to get my skirt tamed I discovered noodles spilled from my soup bowl and wiggling along the table like so many worms after an April shower. With this unpleasant picture still in my mind I aban- doned the idea of having all my ancestors dressed in hoop skirts, realizing these were much more picturesque than practical. Instead, I figured that the combination of beauty and brains would be more profitable for their descendants, and since that includes me, who is in great need of both, I decided it would be a capital idea. With both of these characteristics, virtues, or what have you in ancestors, the family album would tame the baby when given to one of his tantrums. Not only that but think of future generations, what examples they would have to follow and how they would have to work to keep up the family characteristics. But alas and alack it is all only a pleasant contemplation of what might have been. -Marjorie Simmons, '35. miwwlimmiomios Mellerdrammers are in style No matter how you make 'em, Where a villian wins a heart And runs away to forsake 'em. Marion, with downcast eye And long, artistic hair. He is but a poet, kids, To bite-he wouldn't dare! The .QUIVERIAN

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one a local newspaper printed a few years ago. His wife left him some twenty years ago, running away with a barber. He decided never to honor a barber shop until his wife returned, From his looks one would say that he is a man of his word. Kirby can tell some tall stories. He has told people that if some one would finance his expenses he would swim the English channel. There is no doubt but that he has a great amount of strength. He has carried heavy loads for many miles in endurance tests. It is said that he has a penchant for racing with street cars and that he comes out the winner. Desp.te the face that he wears an old baseball suit :pid thc points of his shoes stick out at forty degree angles, he is not as poverty stricken as some people might think. For he has a fairly large farm in the southern part of Missouri. The answer to his racing street ears instead of iliving on the farm is that he prefers the hurry and crowds of the city to the quiet rural life. Kirby has had a fine education. It is said that he has informed groups of curious people that he has at- tended two years of college. He uses good English and has a nice low voice which is pleasant to hear. From a quick glance, one suspects that if he would shave his flaming red whiskers and trim his abundant thatch of hair 'hewould make a fine looking man, v --Naomi Bernard, '3o. 714 took my troubles to a neighbor and he Cieofzge Omas said that setting it by the window where the cold wind blew in would stiffen the oil in the works and stop it. That cleared up that CZLLSZS 'LG DO you consider a clock in your room a help or a disadvantage? Personally I do not know which it is. Four years ago, when I started to high school and had to get up early, I bought a small clock. It was not a very large clock, but when it came to making noise, it would toll out like Big Ben. When I first purchased the clock I was rather proud of it. I bought it in the month of july and from the day of purchase it keep very good time until about a week after school began. Then it started to vary. First it would run fast, and I would work diligently with a pin trying to push back the little lever that regulated the tmepicce, to slow it down. Very likely the next day it would be running about twenty minutes slow and the operation had to be repeated. After a week of this I had it where it would run fairly accurately. This put me in the best of spirits for I felt as though I had really accomplished somethingg however, it soon ceased to run at all. I would bring it downstairs where it was warmer to work on it and in about a half an hour it would start running again. I would take it to my room, which is inclined to be rather cool, and set it on the window sill where I could see it in the morning. In about an hour it would stop. Now this seemed very mysterious to me. If it would run when down stairs, why wouldn't it run when upstairs? I asked everyone at home and they seemed as mystified as I. I then 19344935 mystery, and I realized that learning to handle a clock and make it keep good time was an arteespecially trying to keep this one running accurately. I had developed the habit, when my clock was setting near my bed, of shutting off the alarm vthile only half awake, and then falling asleep again. This almost caused me to be late for school several times and I would step into my first hour about the tfme the bell rang. Soon I had a brilliant idea how to awaken myself fully. I would place the clock on the other side of the room and by the time I reached it I should be fully awakened. The next morning my plan proved to be a failure. W'hen the clock started its dreaded noise, I awoke. At first I put my head under the cover but the noise still persisted. After glaring at it for several minutes I arose from my bed and started across the room. I was thinking what a big noise that little clock was making, and had completely forgotten the obstacles in my way, when I hit the footstool, fell, and knocked over the lamp. There I lay, sprawled out over the floor, en' twined in the fallen lamp and turned over footstool while the clock sat ringing lustily. I untangled my- self, made my way over to it, and slammed off the alarm which resounded with a little, yet defiant, ting You can see my position on the subject. If you had been troubled and bothered as much as I by a little old clock I believe you would feel much the same as I. Lately I have been thinking ft over and summing up its good and bad qualities. They just about balance as far as I am concerned, and I will have to wait to see if my clock goes on another rampage before long or continues to peacefully tick away the minutes before I can definitely make up my mind about clocks. 5

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me gain enevive dofzdan N your return home from a long trip, or even a short one, don't you feel a pleasant yet intangif ble sensation embrace you as the fog embraces a church steeple, and makes the world as vague to you as the the steeple is to the world. I do. I always breathe a prayer of relief when I find that that old house I call home is still safe and sound, that it has not become the unsuspecting victim of that tiger whose angry and hor' ribly beautiful tongue may destroy a building so quickly and leave only charred remains. The humble old home always seems to smile rather sheepishly as though he ref joiced at our return but did not like to admit the fact. It is queer how an inanimate dwelling can possess so much feeling and express its emotions when humans, who are supposed to be loving and kind, present only a poker face. Your friends greet you on your arrival from a little jaunt just as quickly as if it had been a long voyage. They are just as glad to see you return as they were to see you leave. And why should friends not take pride in your good fortunes? Of course we are assuming that it was a pleasant excursion, for I take it for granted that a thing is pleasant until it proves itself to be otherwise. It seems such a long, lfofnfg time since I roamed the halls of that dear old institution we called Wyandotte. The Old Building brings out the tender qualities in one's voice when it is mentioned, just sorta reverent like. The worn steps, the cracks in the walls, the squeaky seats are never spoken or thought of with conf- tempt, but cherished as a lost dream. Though many times we have envied the classes to come after us because they will be the first to make an impression on the new building, we have more than they. The pleasures we enjoyed they will never know, they are to be pitied. And yet they tell us we should not dwell in the past, but should live only for the future. fDid you ever ask them why we must study history?J Those were the good old days. Gone forever-but not forgotten. Once upon a time there was a girl, not very old nor very young-a sophomore at Wyandotte. Through the long cold winter she attended school as regularly as the clock on the wall ticks the minutes away. When the winter left, she went with it. A notice in the Pantograph announced she had moved. Then, as far as the school :rs a whole was concerned, the world had opened up and swallowed her, for but a few knew of her whereabouts. These few were rewarded by a glimpse of her at inter' 19344935 vals, or a letter once in a while, just often enough to learn that she had changed her residence again. Now I am back again! Back again! But alas, the scenes have changed. The home of memories vanished in a swirl of smoke, but the memories themselves will remain undimmed. Back again! Back in the midst of the swirling throng of young humans. just to be a part of that happy, vivacious crowd once more is enough for me. Talking and laughing about nothing at all is our policy. Living a happyfgoflueky life, but serious as anyone would want it. Though you and I are living on the hospitality of our friends, that does not matter. I am home again! mjouwiommm 5 'zlxj W2 'ming Qene QOSVIBK' THE alarm shrieksg it is time to get up and set about the day's work. The day starts at one o'clock in the morning for the milkman. Who ever thinks about him, wonders about him, whether or not he has any thoughts or philosophy? Perhaps no one thinks about him, but I assure you he has his own thoughts while the city is slumbering and all is quiet. Driving his team through the dark, silent streets which, at this hour, belong entirely to him, he hears the softly whispering breezes of summer murmur' ing soft nothings to leaves of the living trees, and the wild gales of winter shouting defiance to the many houses it tries to destrov. To the rest of the world it would be a dreadful task to arise at so early an hour, morning after morning, but to the man who has done it for years there is no other life. He has learned to love the early morning hours with their watching stars and beautiful dawn. It has instilled itself in his blood. He may grumble and complain when the loud ringing of the alarm destroys his sleep, but once out in the air, his heart lightens as he goes about doing his share for the world. Sometimes he wonder just what is his part in the play. As his mind wanders, he reflects that he is fur- nishing sustenance for growing children, and energy which the world must have to keep the wheels turning. He perhaps isn't thought about by others, because they have their own thoughts and troubles and cares. Then, too, he isn't so very important to them, but that worries him not. He has a world all his own which belongs only to him, and when he is retiring after the day's work, the other world is bustling with activity. 7