Thursday, March 12, 1925
HIGH LIFE
Page Three
I
THE VOICE
“Bring out your dead!” The grey
prison walls echoed the hoarse call to
the midnight air. A hurried tread of
feet.
“What—only one!”
Creak! Creak! The death cart rumbled
on in its ghastly mission through the
heavy night.
Grim and sullen loomed the disease-
racked prison. The black waters of* the
moat lapped gloomily over the hideous
secrets concealed beneath their oily
depths. Far down in one of the foul
dungeons the soul of a man cried out in
agony. His thin, drawn face peered
wildly out into the night through the
pitiful slit that served as an air hole.
But cease, poor wretch! Your frantic
clawings will avail you nothing. Many
a captive, condemned like yourself, false
ly, has spent his puny strength against
their unyielding bars. Look! The faint
gleam that you so eagerly strained to
follow has disappeared. It was a coarse
white sheet, man, the only coffin and
pall of your friend.
The heavy chains rattled as the pris
oner sank to the floor. All was silent
save the gnawing of the hungry prison
rats and the monotonous drip, drip, from
a moss-covered rock in the wall.
A dull hatred fdled the man’s crazed
brain. Faith, hope, trust in God, every
thing that had made life bearable in that
miserable hole had turned to black de
spair. Before his eyes appeared again
and again the dying face of his martyred
leader. A saint he had been, with his
white soul and his dreauis.
For days and days, as a wounded ani
mal guards her whelps, he had watched
that inert body. Scratching desperately
into the earth with the manicled claws
that served as his hands, he had tried
to hollow out a grave—a grave in a
living tomb! But there had been a visit
from the keeper, a brutal kick against
the lifeless body, and then the rattle of
wheels over the midnight streets.
Such was life. Such was the fate of
him that had dared to speak the truth!
One by the village clock! Two by the
village clock! The man sleeps. Now
the hungry gnawing of the rats has
ceased. Slowly a rosy light transforms
the grey walls into beauty. As the sleep
er awakens, the shackles fall from him
as if struck off by an invisible power.
Lo! A clear voice is speaking:
“Do not mourn for him, prisoners. He
sleeps in peace! The earth has not a
nobler name than his will be. Mighty
deeds wrought in war, lofty flights of
thought, the beauty of poetry, have in
significant honors compared to his. The
cause of righteousness goes not unre
warded. Nothing here could be a fit re
turn for it. No mortal can know the
promised joys above. Take hoj^e!”
The rosy glow fades. The man looks
at his shackled hands, bewildered. But
then through the tiny opening comes a
ray of light. It is morning.
CoRiNNE Cook.
The Legend of the Flapper
The daintiest little sobriquet ever giv
en to the women was that which was ap
plied right after the great World War—
the “Flapper.” Somewhere in No-Man’s-
Land a woman conceived the idea to bob
her hair. It wms bound to have been in
No-Man’s-Land, because no man with
any common sense would have let his
wife or daughter bob her hair. Most
likely one of the reasons she bobbed her
hair was to make the outside of her head
balance with the inside.
It has always been known that men
accused their wives of not being eco
nomical enough. 'Hiey were always buy
ing too many clothes. The flapper de
cided to break up tliis idea by wearing
as little clothes as possible. Now the
men accuse them of trying to attract
other men’s attention.
Not only did the flap2:)er bob her hair
and wear short skirts. She jrainted her
face uj:) like an Indian war chief. She
forgot all about the styles in clothes
while trying to learn the different styles
of rouge.
Ever since women became flappers,
they have kept the men swaying (dances
included). They went mad over the flap
per role and decreased their husband’s
roll. In the end they made matters
worse; they created the “tea-hound.”
Walter Smalley.
vagabond song
T m off for a jaunt on a winding trait
1 hat leads to the mountain top,
Where the eagles go and the wild winds
blow,
And the treacherous gray crags drop.
Refraix
And oh, to he a vagabond,
A-singing on the trail,
Or crooned to sleep by the wind-flower
song
Or the tune of a nightingale!
I scorn the valleys of simple men
That warm in the sunshine lie.
And all T wish is the breezes’ kiss—
.dust a wistful melody.
Refraix
Tm off on the road that leads me on.
For there’s wand’reFs blood in my veins.
Fm off to the hills where there’s air that
fills
My hair with the gray misty rains.
Refraix
I laugh roith glee as I trudge cdong.
Or lie ’neath the midnight skies.
For there’s none e’er knows how the
wild wind blows
The stardust in my eyes!
Refraix
Marjorie Vaxxemax.
Miss Good English
Miss Good English’s come to our school
to stay.
To wash the “ain’t’s” and “wuzes” up,
and brn.s‘h the ‘die don’t” away.
And shove the “he tokens” o%it of the
mouth, and clean our minds, and
sweep,
And make us speak, show us how to
speak, to earn her board-and-keep;
And all we older children, when the
school day is done,
We sit around in 101 and have the
mo-o-st fun
A-list’nin’ to the awful tcdes Miss English
tells about.
And Improper Grammar’ll get you
If You Don’t Watch Out!
Once there was a little boy who always
said “I ain’t,”
So xidien he went that day near the can
of liaint.
Ills teacher heard him holler, and his pal
heard him bawl.
And' when they came near the can he
wasn’t there at cdl!
And they soxight him in the basement,
the supply room, and office.
And sought him up the stair-case, and
everywhere. T guess;
But cdl they ever found was just his
shoes and roundabout!
And Improper Grammar’ll get you
If You Don’t Watch Out!
Once there was a little girl who’d cdways
laugh and holler.
And make fun. of Century Ilandbook, an’
every noted schcdar;
And. once during “Good Speech Week”
when they cdl xvere to try,
She mocked them, and .shocked them., an’
didn’t even cry!
And just as she felt blue, and wished
then to repent.
There were two great big black things
which over her were bent.
And they made her dumb right then, ’fore
she knew what she’s’ about!
And Improper Grammar’ll get you
If You Don’t Watch Out!
And. Miss English says, when Century
Ilandbook. is tcdkecl about and
hated.
And mistakes are made, by all. both old
and great.
And you hear our language abused, and
people don’t seem to know
What “Better Speech Week” is all about.
You’d better love that “C. II. Book,” and
try its rules to learn.
And review those you knozo, and try some
more to learn,
And remove the “ain’t seens” and “he
don’ts” that cluster all about,
’Cause Improper Grammar’ll get you.
If You Don’t Watch Out!
Elizabeth Hodgix.
Always put off till tomorrow what you
can do today, because you may die to
morrow and you won’t have to do it.
A TEMPERAMENTAL
CLOCK
Having been told by Miss Coleman to
“get an article, dead or alive,” I was
sauntering down the hall, my news nose
on the trail of a subject for the afore-
side article. That eagle eye of Miss
Walker was upon me from the hall. So
as I glanced innocently upward, my eye
was caught by the jiiece of machinery on
the wall (otherwise known as a time-
liiece), and my mind was made ujo. I
forgot Miss Walker, rolled up my sleeves
and with my best repartiere I began to
question this pretender.
“No, I’m not bad,” began Mr. Clock.
“I’m just temiierarnental. At first I was
wholly in symjiathy with the faculty. I
ran classes as much overtime as ten min
utes.”
Mr. Clock glanced suspiciously at me
as I breathed a fervent “Amen.”
“They didn’t seem to appreciate me,
though Mr. Edwards tinkered with me
for a week. After this I got even. One
day I rang a whole hcdf hour early.”
Mr. Clock chuckled gleefully. “Ever
since then I have had sjiells. One day a
l)oor boy came in late when I rang on
time, so next day I rang five minutes
late.
“Sometimes I get lonesome, so I ring
early, and have a tardy room full to
keeji me conqiany. Again, I do the other
way around. It dejiends ujion how I
feel.” Mr. Clock j^uffed out his chest
importantly. “Yes, ma’am, it’s fifteen
minutes late now. I better ring now.
Come to see me again.”
Here Mr. Clock rang loudly if very
lately, and I arrived in my next class,
all the while trying to tell which end of
my notes was which.
ViRGIXIA JaCKSOX.
To Speak or Not to Speak
To speak or not to speak—that is the
question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slang and errors of outrageous lan
guage.
Or to stop fighting against a sea of blun
ders.
And by a silence end them? To hush,—
to speak—
No more; and by such .silence to say we
end
The slang and all grammaticcd errors
That flesh is heir to,—’tis a consumma
tion
Devoutly to be wished. To hush—to
speak,—
To speak! Perchance to err! ay, there’s
the rub;
For in that careless speech, what “ain’ts”
may come.
What “he don’ts^’ soon may follozo,
Must give us pause; there’s the respect
that makes
The struggle for education of so long
life;
For zvho zvould bear the whips and scorns
of students.
The professor’s wrong, the teacher’s con
tumely,
The pang of dispriz’d labor, the long
The tediousness of study, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes.
117; en he himself might incorrectly speak
With little trouble? Who zvotdd. per
chance bear
To grunt and .sweat under a weary life.
But that the dread, of something after
school.
The unexplored world into whose bourn
Each must at length be hurled, puzzles
the will.
And makes us rather learn all that we
can.
Than try to gain success so handicapped?
Thus “Better Speech” should be the mot
to of %is cdl;
And thus the crude and native thought
Is varnished over zaith a finer surface.
Or rather doth acquire the finished touch
Which enterprises of great pith and mo
ment
Inexorably demand.
Lizzie,
Thoughtful Senior: “I can’t say much
for my skin, but I’ve a pocketbook they
love to touch.”
Old Lady (kindly): “My little man,
can you direct me to the First National
Bank?”
Ragged Urchin: “I can if there’s a
nickel in it. Us bank directors don’t
work for nothin’ in this town.”
MY PET PHANTOM
Thousands upon thousands of iieojile—
old, young, rich, poor—every iierson in
the city who was lucky enough to get
seats in the great hall that night, sat in
breathless silence. The stillness was op
pressive — someone tittered nervously.
Slowly, majestically the curtain rose. A
tremendous roar broke from the throng.
Their idol had come back. After taking
Europe by storm, crowned heads and all,
she had come hack to them after five
years of uninterrujited triumiih abroad.
It was no dream, no jiress-agent stuff!
She was back and nothing could ever
take her away again. The apjilause
swelled and re-echoed through the vast
sjiaces.
The girl in the center of the stage
raised her bow. Instantly silence reigned
over the vast hall. The silvery liquid
notes of “Souvenir” rljipled forth. Over
catchy cadences, difficult double-stoiijiing
the girl swejit her way to the last perfect
harmonic. Again the audience went wild.
Through the masterpieces with sweet
ness and jiower the girl played, danced,
and lived with the mass before her. All
too rajiidly the hours flew. At last, when
quiet reigned again, the girl looking on
and beyond the dim faces before, her
glided into that most beautiful master
piece in all music, Schubert’s “Ave Ma-
HANK WRITES HOME
na.
The clear, full tones fell on
deathlike stillness. It did not seem jios-
sible that a mere human could jierform
such a miracle of beauty!
The man in the box sat spellbound
during the entire three hours. As the
last notes lingeringly died away, he rose,
fiassed out and mingled with the throng.
There was no word, no hand-chqijiing,
no disjilay; but a slow smile jjlayed about
his lijis. He had seen the cause, where
others had seen only the effect. The vio
lin had been the medium of showering
forth all the purity and beauty of a girl’s
soul, and he had caught it. Thousands
upon thousands had felt that intangible
something that had elevated them, some
thing they could not understand. Still
with the little smile, the man jiatiently
and unfalteringly jiushed his way to the
girl.
The rest of the story is obvious. He
had found his “dream girl” and of course
she resiionded. The rest is regulation
fairy story ending. I came back to the
prosaic for the simjile reason that I am
afraid my head will hit the sky if I keej)
on soaring, and I am really not ready
for that—yet. How many times have I
felt that stillness! Perhaps I have let
my imagination run away with me, but
I comfort myself with the thought—if I
ever attain such a character as I have
jiictured the girl as having, it is worth
a little dreaming and jilaying that a-flat
minor scale sixteen times instead of just
fifteen!
Sometimes I substitute the President
of the United States “in the box.” But
tonight the romance seems more real.
The jioint is this: I want to jrlay “Ave
Maria” before thousands u^ion thousands.
ViRGIXIA Jacksox.
Spring
Spring has come, we knozo not hozo;
All the birds are singing now,
In the woods the wild flowers bloom.
And Spring has chased off Winter’s
gloom.
Spring has come, the robins sing.
Every month sweet fl.owers bring;
In the meadows, babbling brooks
Chattering pass the shady nooks.
Spring has come, the grass is green;
Ezieryzohere ncno life is seen.
We love the Springtime for it is gay,
Happy are zoe and content all day.
Ida Mae Freelaxd.
REFLECTIONS ON GUM
What a iiiece of work is gum! How
delicious in taste ! How durable in qual
ity ! For fun and enjoyment how exjiress
and admirable! For chewing, how like
youth! In elasticity, how like rubber!
The delight of pupils, the horror of
teachers! And yet, to me, what is this
quintessance of sweets?
Mariax Walters.
Sunday School Teacher: “Now, each
pupil will quote a Bible verse as he drops
in his pennies.”
B. Shaw (after much thinking): “A
fool and his money are soon parted.”
Dear Ma:
I got moved into the new buildin our
school built lass week. Hits a iiurty fine
buildin made outa bricks with paseboard
wall in hit. We bed to cary all our books
horn fri. and rejiort to the new buildin
mon.
When we come mon. a hole lota boys
wanted to sho us the bord of ejucation,
but all they did was to beet us with a
jieece of flourin lak pa usta do out in
the ole wood shed.
'Fhey is a lot more hoys and girls that
goes to this school to. Cause tliey have
‘.i buildins beer all ready afore we come
over. One is a brick buildin and the
other to is old wood in ones lak our ole
barn down on the farm.
In one of tlie woodin ones is a big
dinning room what they calls tlie calf-
ateria but they warnt no calf there. In
this dinning room they is a shelf on one
side witch you go buy and grab things
to eat off of, then you go buy a lady
what makes you pay fer the things you
got. After that you kin go set down
and eat it eft'en somebody dont grab it
afore you get to it.
It has started rainin round beer and
the mud round the new buildin is red and
soft and sticky.
Thats All,
Haxk.
A Message Old
Have you ever thought, as you're pass
ing cdong.
Of the people you see in the gathering
throng?
Have you e’er from the highway stepping
aside.
Assisted one fallen to regain his stride?
Have you ever smiled to a wearied one
Whose struggle, is hard, and is almost
done?
Did you ezier try helping a youth to gain
Seared honor zvhich he woidd have lost
in vain?
Have you ever helped a faltering child
To believe in and trust Gentle Jesus
Mild?
The throng znarches on in the struggle
and strife '
On this zi'onderfid hicjhzoay of circling
years.
The sun is e’er setting on somebody’s life
Which was brightened with laughter and
watered zvith tears.
But to some happy ones, life is just
what it seems,
.A beautiful land of dear, lovely dreams.
To them., in their youth, life is only be
ginning.
And they go their way rejoicing and
singing.
But others are zveary of toil and despair.
And they welcome the break of the morn
ing so fair.
From centuries old, and centuries new.
There comes a sweet znessage, so clear
and so true.
It brings us idecds of love and of peace.
And all throtigh eternity it never will
cease;
A message for cdl weary hearts of ‘men.
To help them, to rise from their slothful
sin.
To teach tis to love our fellowman,
And help thezn to strive on the best that
they can.
This is the message the angels give
From One who died tha! zoe might live.
Maxixe Ferree.
SPRING MEMORIES
'mind, wanders back on the first day
of spiring.
When the sun shines gold and the zoood-
thrushes sing;
Bo szoiftly o'er ripples of .^zoift-nuwing
streams
The. sunlight now shines and there glances
and gleams.
The bios.so ms smile szoeelly at each mir
rored face.
And sway in the breezes, each leaf in its
place.
The waters rush gurgling among the
green, grass,
Rustling the leaves on the bushes they
pass.
The w'lncl hums a melody through the
green trees,
And the perfume of roses, pervading the
breeze.
Brings back, clearest reveries of far-dis
tant days,
Growing softer and sweeter through
mem’ry’s gray haze.
Marjorie Vaxxemax.
lil'f:
4
%
' i C If
Iji^
is
li
i
jilk
Ml
if!
tm