Yeatman High School - Yeatman Life Yearbook (St Louis, MO)

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-,-v .--. . -,-,1 ,,v-, W , ,,, ,. , S fa L75 ff' f 7 7' f 'ff 1 ' ' 9 7' ff f if fi ..f fl f 'V-Vv- ,... ff:71f:g:1i?fiTiii::1::L::L:f::1L:fi?fif i W ing. My! how we do shake and twist and turn ourselves! The modern dancer would fade into obscurity matched against us. MAY 22.-Oliver Wendell Holmes is a wonderful man. He once compared us to a man boasting of his famous ancestry. He said that the best, in such a case, is under- ground. To celebrate his memory we held a meeting of the potatoes' union. One of the speakers, Mr. Red-river, said we re- sembled Marshal Foch. This worthy gen- eral directed all the allied armies from his headquarters. In a like manner we direct our entire foliage growth from under- ground. MAY 27.-Speaking of blessings in dis- guise, we certainly had them today. The prof held a unique party today-a pota- to bug party. The guests were the chil- dren of the neighborhood. Each child tried to pick off more bugs than the rest. The one that was assigned to me kept busy all afternoon and consequently won the first prize-a perfect potato leaf. I must say that the recipient didn't seem very en- thusiastic and muttered something about the stingy old guy. MAY 29.-The prof has decided that the party wasn't a complete success. He still finds bugs on us. Now he is sitting on the porch with his feet propped upon the railing and is deep in a book on how to ex- terminate garden pests. Some of the dope sounds terrible. N o matter what it is, the prof will follow the directions to the let- ter, for, as he tells his patient wife, You must farm scientifically. AUGUST 1.-Well, my dear diary, I cer- tainly have neglected you, but I've been so busy growing. Besides, the only im- portant occurence of the summer hap- pened on the 4th of July. Then some en- terprising young Edison was experiment- ing in our lot with some mixed explosives in a can. He set it off and ran. We got the results. There were twelve killed, in- cluding the president of our union. Four- teen were seriously injured and twenty, Page Fnrly-Four badly shaken. We have drawn up resolu- tions upholding the idea of a safe and sane Fourth of July. Our children must never suffer such a tragedy. SEPTEMBER 15.-Distinction! Who said that a potato is incapable of distinction? I have been selected as one of the best po- tatoes to be saved for seed next year. Blood will tell! Tomorrow we are to be placed in the bin in the cellar, there to stay all the long winter. Of course, we shall miss the out of doors and our associations will not be of the highest, perhaps, for we will be obliged to content ourselves with cellar beings. SEPTEMBER 25.-We have tried to or- ganize a cellar club. Mrs. Pickled Beet was very sour in her manner when we ask- ed her to join us. She simply gave a gur- gle in her jar. Perhaps the cook put in too much vinegar. JANUARY 24.-It's been a long winter. We did liven up a bit at a party the other day. We were honored by the presence of Mr. Sweet Potato. Spending the win- ter in a sand box has made him so gritty that he asked Miss Peach, the belle of the ball, for several dances. The Bartletts came in pairs, so there was no unevenness of couples. When Mr. Blackberry ap- peared he was given a Raspberry. We did not invite the empty jars. We have grown used to stupidity but not to complete emp- tiness. Mr. Home Brew we considered too dangerous a guest because of his volatile nature. Nor could we think of asking Miss Jam for fear of having a crowd. At one time in a conversation the pickles be- came so sharp that they made the pota- toes' eyes water, but on the whole a good time was had by all. FEBRUARY 28.-This is the last of our winter. Tomorrow we begin our dormant period, which we'll extend through March. I wonder if I'll sprout at the end of that time. A woman could hardly ask for long- er time to make up her mind. Well, here's for a good nap. Perhaps I'll have a dream that will decide the matter.

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1 l -4 f I f ,V !1, , .I 1 123 ' ' 16' ' 1 ,Z 42 CAL, f f X 4 f Z THE DIARY OF A POTATO By GENEVIEVE VVIPPO APRIL 10.-A Red Letter day. I have emerged from the dark obscurity of the pantry. My resting place now is the ground. After we had all been given place in the earth, we were left undisturbed. My colleagues and I consider ourselves so much above the common every-day pota- to, since we live in the back yard of a pro- fessor's home, that we have formed a po- tatoes' union. Naturally, our scope of ed- ucation is widened tenfold. Only those who are enough sophisticated and live in our acre can become members. I am re- garded as a leading member, because my ancestors were among the largest in the town. APRIL 25.-The ants, board of religious organizations in our lot called a mass meet- ing to discuss the moral and educational deficiencies of the modern ant. A motion was passed to limit the skirts of the flapper ants to a certain length. This motion caused dissatisfaction among the afflicted group. APRIL 26.f One of our bolder members decided to sprout once and start out in life for himself. Unfortunately, as he sprouted he struck an ant-hole. He was nearly tickled to death with all the ants running over him. As a result of his boldness, I fear that he will never mature and grow up into a large, healthy potato, because he has his roots in a foundation of sand. You well know the Bible verse, the house built upon a foundation of sand shall perish. APRIL 28.-We have sprouted. Before breaking ground we held a religious meeting in which we prayed for success in the future, a dense foliage growth, and for complete freedom from potato bugs, who inhabit our leaves whether we wish to rent them or not. The parson assured us that all our pleas would be granted. Person- ally, I have my doubts. You know, I felt so proud and happy in sending up that little sprout, that I ac- tually winked at the sun. He merely rolled his eyes in answer. MAY 5.f-My neighbor eight inches away and I are engaged in a deadly feud. It started like this. Just yesterday, both our advance agents, the roots, stretched out in search of food. They collided with each other during the search. An insult- ing remark as to my size caused me to re- ciprocate with one just as biting, hence the feud. INTAY 10.-Well, dear me, the professor was investigating the progress of our growth. He is a wonderful farmer! An innocent neighbor of mine who had ac- quired a denser growth of leaves cruelly deceived the poor man. He thought she was full grown and jerked her out. She was no larger than a small radish. We held a funeral to pay our last sad homage to her, and we gave full vent to our grief, plus anger with the ignorant agriculturist. MAY 15.--Mother used to say that the life of a potato is grand and glorious if you don't weaken. That is my chief trouble-- the weakening clause. To see others of my friends in the same acre of ground having bushy green dresses, and not troubled with those bitter enemies, the dress ruiners, alias the potato bug, is very discouraging. Now, although my dress is green, after a fashion I have been honored with the company of so many of these pests that my once beautiful apparel resembles a sieve Though I am not bothered with a clean- er's bill, thanks to Mr. Rain, it is quite dif- ficult for me to attain the to height of cleanliness that my neighbors do, for the rain simply falls thru the worm-eaten holes and misses me altogether. MAY 20.-My health has not been of the best for the past week, but it is now im- proving. I have adopted exercise as a health-restorer. I have joined the Calis- thenics Club. Every day from nine to ten we take a drill provided the wind is blow- Page Furry- Thrre

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T3 X ff 1 x 5 SZ fi r T i 4 ' ' .. ,..,. .,..,... . ,.,. . L'u::..n... W4 ,,,,. . .. V. f ,l .. W 4 U Xl l3Rllll,l,AS AT ONE ANGLE DOROTHY JEFFREY MBRELLAS: They have always been queer things, haven't they? L? But long ago they were queerer than they are now. Then people carried a family umbrella, and father, mother and the chil- dren trooped along under it. These um- brellas went single file down the street, for there wasn't room for two of those things. In fact, we can't see how the other umbrel- las got wet when one was out. There sim- ply couldn't be enough rain to wet two of them! And they weren't objects of art. They were great, round shapes usually of black and always of cotton. Any conven- ient broom stick apparently made an ideal handle for one of them. Imagine one of those immense umbrellas turning inside out? Father held the umbrella and mother clung to his arm with one hand, while, with the other she saved her skirts from the mud. Behind, trouped four or five chil- dren all safe, interested in the welfare of the giant rain-stick. A fresh gust of wind whirled around the corner. Father wildly clutched the umbrella, but it was doomed. When one saw the wreck, one wondered why they hadn't used it for a tent. To me, a person in trouble with an um- brella is the most pathetic creature in the world. Any one who has experienced it knows what a woe-begone, dismal feeling it gives. For instance, take our daily rainy day program. It rains hard. We go to the umbrella stand, but our family has beaten us there. We pick up the sad re- maining specimen. Still, we think, At least it is silk. We go out. The umbrella looks all right when it is shut, but, when after a struggle it reluctantly opens, we are shocked. Ribs go every way but the right way and the silk slips up them. But patiently we fix it. We know how, because we've done it before. Then we start out with it held low over our head, hoping that the man next door won't recognize it. We hold it forward and a stream runs down our back, we hold it far back and the wind threatens to be its next borrower. We cross the street. In the middle, our um- brella gives up the struggle and collapses. We eye it sadly-W we couldn't be much wet- ter than we are. A friend hails us and we leave the umbrella lying forlornly in the gutter, all its heroic struggles and brave deeds forgotten. When we return, it is still there. No one wants it. We deter- mine to buy a new umbrella. The new ones have ivory handles and flowers paint- ed on them. We buy one, wondering if the flowers will help keep out the rain, It rains and we wonder no longer. We wring out our best hat Next time it rains, we rise early, and lovingly clutch our grand- father's black cotton umbrella. Far be it from me to scorn those staunch and tried friends. They come to our aid in many ways. For instance, we are broke and the brute to whom we owe a dollar ap- proaches. Who is a better friend than the umbrella which we lower over our faces? And who is a better friend to the hobbed- hair lass than the umbrella which shields her permanent curl? And we, whose um- brella turns inside out just as a handsome person at whom we have ineffectually cast glances for months, approaches under an umbrella, aren't we sure at that moment that umbrellas are lovely? Oh, truly I say, though at times we may scorn them haughtily, yet when the sky weeps, we forget our aversion and sally forth under our friend of the ivory handle and the shaky ribs. Pfzgr l m'rv I :'.'s