Page 1


-

THE I6ORROTE

A SLIGHTLY LITERARY EXPOSURE

OF OUR , PHOTOGRAPHIC HIGHLIGHTS

We're tired of floosey dedications, Of adjectivaled appellations. For writing we have few proclivities But have you noticed our ACTIVITIES!

'Published Semi-Annually by the Stuaents of Wydown School In Two Issues for the Year 194O-I94I. 25 Cents a Copy


THE IGORROTE =04,

Three Little Vitamins and How They Fought

THE STAFF FACULTY ADVISERS Literary Business Photography Cover Design

Aileen Lorberg Rose Evertz Robert Lemen Dorothy Leggitt

STAFF ASSISTANTS Faculty Kathryne Lyle Ruth Miller Dingle Martz Students Nancy Babcock Elinor Binder Arthur Lander Alan Mariam Andy Mills Helen Schneider Baker Terry Andy Mills Spencer Payne Norman Crasilneck Carol Hyman Max Putzel Paul Gusdorf

Literary

Business

Photography

Yvonne De Rennaux—Cover Design

Miss Quito By Bob Bliss, 10B In the middle of a game Of tit-tat-to I saw a little MISS QUITO. (She bothered me.) She came a-flying through the air, A-buzzin' in her flight: I wound up and swung at her With all my might. (I missed her.)

or The Death of the Countess

By Jack Eskilson, 10B QNCE UPON a time there were three little vitamins, Oscar L., his brother Joe L., and their baby sister Josie L. They lived happily together in a head of lettuce out in the garden with all the other vegetable vitamins in carrots, parsley, onions, and tomatoes. But just about the time the three L vitamins thought that no house could be happier .or safer than theirs, someone picked it up and took it into a kitchen to make a lettuce and tomato salad. At first the three vitamin children from the head of lettuce and those from the tomatoes ignored each other while the maid carried them into the Countess de Lotta Beef, who was on a diet. Inside this aristocratic female beef-trust, the T's and L's did their best to keep separated. But it was no use; they got to wrangling about which had the better family background. The T's (tomatoes) outnumbered the L's (lettuce) three to one, but Oscar was able to knock one of the T's across the Countess's inside with very little effort. As the T flew back, Oscar slugged him with his blackjack. Two more T's immediately ganged up on him, but Oscar sidestepped and tripped one of them, who fell on his face and had the wind knocked out of him. Then he tackled T Number Two and his trusty blackjack came into play again. Number One rose and came to grips with Oscar the Mighty; but he, too, went down under the blackjack that Oscar knew how to use so well. In the meantime Joe and Josie weren't doing so bad, either, and with Oscar's help they soon put the rest of the enemy to the blackjack.

While I was eating dinner She came flying through the air; I was so darn disgusted I hit her with a chair. (I stunned her.)

The Countess, meanwhile, had called a doctor, who came very soon and gave her some medicine. When Oscar saw it coming he tried to commit suicide; but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't die, nor could he free himself from all that gooey stuff.

She spiralled through the air, Then landed on the ground: I raised my hand with care— And landed down. (I killed her!)

The vitamins lived but the Countess died. And the moral of this story has nothing to do with survival of the fittest. The moral is: never count your vitamins before they're digested. It doesn't make sense, but who talks sense these days? Page Two


THE IGORROTE Pa's Stories

From Ethiope's Darkest Fountain

By George Ryan, 9B and 10B I ONG AGO and down through the ages the only source of knowledge was by word of mouth, and tales were related around a fire whose dancing light shone on the faces of the people as they told of their experiences. Similarly, but under different conditions, I sit, with the family for the evening meal and listen to my father. There is a wealth of knowledge and information stored in the old boy but it's hard as H— to get it out.

By Perry Sparks, 9B Ah is jes' a little boy About de age of half-past three, And w'en it's real dahk Yo' cain't see me.

For example, he is right in the middle of the story of the flood—the one that was four feet deep on the Main Street—and here he pauses to jam half a pork chop in on the bridge work. Just before he has it down I lead him on by saying, "Gee, Pop, that's perty deep." Whereupon my kid brother will rub him the wrong way with, "Yeah, I'll say it's getting deep in here." It is easy for you to understand how hard it is for me ever to get a complete story at this rate. Last winter I led Pop on for three nights to get a yarn about Pat the fighting mick, and what happens? Why, it's just no good, it just ain't right . . . it's a lie. But would he change it? No! He swore it was true and that's the way it was so he couldn't say different. Talk about the stubborn kraut headed Dutch—well, I know some Irish that have really got a gall. Sometimes a lot depends on the food, whether or not the story is good. And since my pen is full and the paper is borrowed I can explain in detail. When the food is well cooked and to my father's liking, he is preoccupied with his eating and I get short sentences and unconnected thoughts — but mostly the dull and sober truth — between mouthfuls of food. But when the food is the product of Elco, Heinz, or Campbell's plus a can opener, I get choice stories with explanations of some length. In the future I will use my own devices— and Ma's—to conjure a story of doubtful authenticity and quality.

The Skirts Have It By Banner Bell, 10B The men in skirts Keep on defeating II Duce. He says Go on — retreating!

W'en dere's snow on de ground Ah shows up good, Ah likes to play wif knives, An splintah up wood. Ah likes watahmelon, Ah's crazy about ham; Ah's gonna shine shoes W'en Ah's big as yo' am.

Off to the Thousand Islands By Peggy Luckstandl, 9B gVERYTHING goes back to that Kirkland Tour. No bad reflections on Kirkland. That afternoon we were supposed to go on a boat trip to the Thousand Islands. Cars were supposed to pick us up at our hotel. I lost Mother in the crowd and got myself planted in a different car. We left the hotel at once and reached the pier very soon. Many boats were curtseying gently to each other. I jumped out of the car, and knowing that there were quite a number of people on the tour I was sure we would need a large boat. I thought I saw just the one we needed, so I ran upon it to wait for Mother. How was I to know that it was a private yacht owned by one of the wealthy families who have an estate on one of the Islands! When I was refused admittance I knew something was wrong . . . That's it, I was on the wrong boat and on the wrong pier! I always catch on after a while. I looked for the car in which I had come. It was nowhere to be seen. In times like this the other pier is usually at least ten miles away. What was I supposed to do? Jump off the pier? I felt like it. Suddenly I saw a little house some distance away. Expecting only to find another of the idle rich—drinking tea and munching on crumpets—I hurried to the house, and there I saw many cars. Among them was Mother, searching frantically for me. That night we took a steamer across Lake Erie to Toronto . . . More boats. Ugh!

Page Three


THE I G O R R O T E "Softie"

Ravings From the Radio

By Judy Goldman, 10B JULIA, the child I am going to tell you about, has the most extraordinary disposition. What? Oh, no, it's neither a He nor a She; though I have never bothered to inquire. Julia is of the very finest lineage, being derived from a thoroughbred goose and several pedigreed ducks. When the child first came to me, its somewhat chubby body was draped in lovely corded silks and ribbed satins, with an exquisite silk rope sash. But times are harder than they used to be, and now Julia seems perfectly contented to be dressed in neat and trim white muslins, with lace or embroidery around the hem of the skirt. As I have already mentioned, Julia has a most extraordinary disposition and cannot always be relied upon to serve my every whim. You aee, when I go to bed at night, it is very soothing to me to be able to sink my head into the very depths of Julia's bosom, with certain squashy parts of the loving creature melting my cheeks on both sides. So it is very annoying when instead of softness I feel only a discomforting tickling up my nose. Julia also suffers from violent attacks of indigestion. And believe me, it isn't very pleasant when I lay my aching head in the middle of Julia's usually plump lap and find the poor dear's insides so unevenly distributed, and so inconveniently for my own personal comfort. There is only one cure for the child in times like these, and that is by giving it a good shaking; though it does seem a cruel way to remedy anybody's illness. But Julia also has a number of good qualities and is a known favorite in company as well as in the privacy of my boudoir. And there is nothing the darling enjoys so much as a bunking party, no matter how roughly the girls play with it. The more Julia is thrown about from girl to girl, the better the game. And even though I am sure the little culprit was the cause of my asthma last winter, there are other times when I realize what a soft spot there is in the child's heart for me, and that I might never have gone to sleep without the help of Julia.

By Edward Keath, 9B COME TIME ago I was asked about my tastes in radio, and not being exactly certain of what they were, I settled down one evening to discover them. With pencil and paper near-by to record my impressions, I snapped on the gadget and prepared to enjoy myself. The first voice I was to hear was that of the honorable Senator from the State of California, Senator Johnson, who was telling me why my sacred institutions of this and that were in danger. Distressed at the thought that there were so many of these, I flipped the dial, just in time to be informed that my liver needed waking up and that the quickest waker-upper was a remedy called Carter's Little Liver Pills. But I preferred to let mine rest and so consulted the radio log. My eyes fell upon the name of one Orrin Tucker, who featured in his orchestra the "shy voice of wee Bonnie Baker." As soon as I had reached the required station, my radio began squeaking and throbbing in seemingly great dismay. Just when I was about to call the service man, a gentleman began urging me to smoke the "cigarette that satisfies." Oddly enough, the strange noises had been Mr. Tucker's music and the voice ( ? ) of Miss Baker. I at once came back to the station with which I had begun the evening's enjoyment. I was thoroughly disgusted. I had returned in the middle of an osculation. With little sighs and gasps the heroine was running her fingers through the blond wig of the hero. Perhaps I did not hear radio at its best. But for fear that it could be even worse f Heaven forbid!) I now refrain from tinkering with the little dials. The walnut stand remains idle and gathers dust in a corner of my room as I spend my evenings in the more worth-while pastime of thumb-twiddling.

Envy

Faith, Hope, and Doubt

By Don Manners, 10B Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Who the heck do you think you are, Up above the world so high?

By Dolores Benson, 10B I have so many dreams of romance— If only the young swains would give me a chance.

Come down out of that big black sky. Don't I wish I were a star, And superior as you think you are!

Page Four


THE IGORROTE Heirloom By Elinor Binder, 9B IN MY JEWEL-BOX among some very humble baubles lies a treasure that could make me the envy of all France. As I recollect the adventures of this precious piece, my thoughts carry me back to my glorious childhood days. Our family was always a united one, so when Qrandpere died Grandmej;e came to live with us. Grandmere used to tell me a story every evening before I went to bed, as we sat in front of the large fireplace together. One evening, Grandmere announced sorrowfully that she had no more stories to tell. As a child I was often over-curious and this time my curiosity got the better of me. I noticed that Grandmere had worn throughout the day on her rich, rather decollete silk gown a huge, expensive-looking, oval brooch at the throat. I asked her about it, and seeing the fascination it held for me, she told me the following story: "This, my child, is a genuine cameo, carved by a famous artist of Paris in the year 1511. Our ancestors have always been interested in precious jewels and stones of all kinds— crystal-white diamonds, blue-green emeralds, milk-white pearls, sparkling rubies. Cameos, too, were expensive in the sixteenth century, but our forbears were more fortunate than we and could afford the luxury of rich gems. The ancestor who had this precious piece carved, Pierre la Bouche by name, had his initials duly inscribed on the back." Grandmere unfastened the intricate clasp and as I studied it closely I could discern P. L. ever so faintly, and underneath these letters, a more readable M. A.—followed by—Queen of France and Brittany! In smaller figures was written A. D. 1788. Naturally, I asked Grandmere about the later markings on the cameo, and she looked at me impatiently and answered that they were a part of her story. Then she continued: "Two years after his marriage, Pierre went off to the wars, and this brooch was his parting gift to his wife, Gabrielle. Throughout the long months that followed, Gabrielle gazed and gazed at the exquisite cameo, thinking all the while of her dearest Pierre. Time passed, and Pierre did not return. Though he had left his wife well provided for in his absence, Gabrielle finally opened a small bakery on the banks of the Seine. Her thoughts were always of Pierre and she wore

his precious keepsake every day even on her inexpensive cotton gowns which she herself made. "As the years passed, Gabrielle grew more reconciled to her lost love. She adopted an orphan boy of good family, and when he was not busy with his lessons he helped her in the shop. As the boy Andre grew older, Gabrielle relied on him more and more for the care of her shop, which had grown to larger proportions. When Gabrielle died the whole estate was willed to her adopted son. "Nothing of importance happened to the cameo until a little less than two centuries later. It must have stayed in Andre's family for a time. But Fate plays a queer hand. The cameo now belonged to Marie Antoinette. Perhaps one of Andre's descendants found favor with the kings and queens of later times, and presented the brooch to one of the Queens of France as a token of appreciation. "Marie Antoinette had jewel-cases filled with finer and more costly gems than the cameo. But it was a favorite of hers, so it often graced her gowns. The Queen, who loved any sort of display, had the cameo re-cast in gold and precious stones and her initials carved on the back. "But Fate is also unjust to those in high stations, and when the Revolution came it stripped the whole of royalty of its power and of many of its possessions. Many a poor woman must have worn the cameo before it was restored to the royal family. Another monarchy crashed, and the royal family fled, leaving all personal possessions behind them. The angry mobs stormed the Tuileries. A descendant of Andre la Bouche helped in the pillage, and found the family's lost heirloom in one of the Queen's jewel-cases. Since then it has stayed in the family and has been handed down from generation to generation." The shadows were darkening and I bade Grandmere goodnight and thanked her for her story—from the very bottom of my heart. Years later, Grandmere willed me the cameo. Time has not changed its beauty or richness, even though it has seen the centuries come and go.

Wit's End By Don Manners, 10J5 Christmas time is almost here, Bachelors are stacking up on beer; The little kids are spending their dimes: 1 hope these are acceptable rhymes.

Page Five


THE I G O R R O T E The Gentle Art of Washing a Dog By Polly Messinger, 9B A CCORDING to a very old saying, "Experience teaches." So I am sure that I am justified in establishing myself as an expert on the very complex and mysterious art of washing a dog. I say "complex" because there are many angles of approach to the subject; and I say "mysterious" because the art is a dark and veiled mystery to many. For the benefit of you who would learn the technique, I will try to outline the best points of attack and defense. Perhaps my boast about being an expert was hasty, but I can at least give you several vital hints. Probably the first obstacle that one would encounter after getting the animal into the tub (and the art of getting him in is a subject for another essay) is how to keep hjin there. Fido, desiring that you, also, enjoy the delightful experience of taking a bath, invariably seeks to have you change places with him or at least share the tub. Patience, indeed, is needed to restrain the dog in his energetic gyrations. However, a stern voice and a firm hand will usually succeed in commanding the situation. With Fido finally "established" in the water, the next thing of importance is to apply the soap liberally. If it can be kept out of his eyes and ears, he may not mind the soaping, and he will actually enjoy the rubbing. But not for long is he contented; the rinsing water seems to cause him new and special annoyance. Although he apparently likes to be on top of the water, he manifests a peculiar horror of its being on top of him. Therefore, the sprinkling must be a slow and gentle one: dogs do not appreciate your watering their eyes. Thus it goes, rub after rub, rinse after rinse, until Fido somewhat resembles his native coloring. But the fact that he is clean does not indicate that your job is at an end. In one of the initial lines of this exposition I said something about attack and defense. It is now time for the defense. Upon emerging from the tub, Fido begins to feel like his former self. Hence, in an effort to complete this feeling, he will invariably begin to shed the excess water his coat has absorbed by a series of shakings, which prove to be very effective in drenching anyone who happens to be standing nearby. To make your drenching less harmful, I can only suggest wrapping yourself in several large bath towels and removing yourself

entirely from the path of the spray. Once Fido is a few feet beyond the limitations of the tub, he cannot be controlled, so the only thing you can do about it is to give him his liberty again. Then comes the loathesome task of cleaning the filthy tub. Back-weary and dripping wet, you will undoubtedly reflect, as I have often done, upon the age-old proverb about dog being "man's best friend." And you will wonder whether, after all, our fine, fourlegged friends really appreciate our wellintended efforts. But, on second thought, not even man is perfect. Is he?

Aunt La Vahne's Fainting Spells By Caroline Keers, 9B IT'S REALLY too bad that Aunt La Vahne doesn't like water—but it was more than water this time. You'll understand what I mean after I have told her story. When my Aunt and Uncle La Vahne were first married, Aunt managed to have a fainting spell every night just about the time that Uncle came home from his work. I didn't know why she did this then, and it's still a mystery to me (though it is perfectly clear to me why she suddenly stopped). On these unhappy occasions Uncle would carry her to her room, and then perform all sorts of tricks to sooth and baby her. But if he left the room to get a wet towel or something she would open one eye, sigh, and smile in satisfaction—for if there's anything Aunt La Vahne does like it's being babied to death. But as soon as Uncle would come back she would close the eye and remove the smile. Unfortunately, though, it once happened that Mother was visiting her and Aunt was wearing her best dress. Putting on the usual act, she swooned just as Uncle came through the door. Mother was a little suspicious, so as they approached Aunt's room Mother entered with a whole pan of water and said, "I'd better just throw this cold water on her." "Oh, no, you won't; you'll ruin my good dress!" cried Aunt La Vahne as she sat up quickly in bed. Then she realized her mistake. Since then Uncle knows better and so does Aunt La Vahne.

Monument to a Fellow-Classmate

Page Six

By Kenneth PoslosJcy, 10B Here lies the body of Harold Brill. He formed the base of this big hill.


THE IGORROTE "If at First You Don't Succeed"—

Diagnosiphobia

By Robert Holsaple, 10B TRYING to get a table in a crowded restaurant is like trying to scratch your own nose while you are inhabiting a strait-jacket. When you enter the place the Head Waiter with that authoritative air of his will come up to you and ask in a menacing tone, "A table, or a booth?" (Emphasis on the "booth.") Since you say "Table" he calmly leads you to a booth. You ask him who occupies the eleven empty tables, and he replies softly and unassuringly that they are "Reserved." As you are very hungry you decide you'd rather take the booth than argue.

P>y Audrey Cotlar, 1GB I looked in the mirror, And what did I see? I'm afraid to look again: It might be me.

I Follow Marie Antoinette

u

TBy

Virginia Handlan, 10B

can be the LIFE F THE "v° PARTY. > °°>You, ° too, can learn to play

the flute in TEN EASY LESSONS! No more sitting in the background at parties, watching your friends show off. Just mail TEN CENTS Now comes the great struggle—trying to with your name and address to the TOOT get into the midget jail cell. There are sev- TOOT FLUTE COMPANY, and you will reeral combinations of contortionist squirms ceive ten monthly Learn-at-home Lessons." and Houdini-like gyrations by which it is I, being a rather shy person at the time, possible to ooze into a booth. The first way decided this was just what I needed. Into the is to get down 011 your hands and knees and mail-box went my ten cents. After a few days crawl under the table, stage a back flip, push of anxious waiting, I received Lesson Number with your legs, and hope. This method, One. After I had read it over and assured however, must not be attempted by anybody myself that it would not be too difficult, I weighing more than one-hundred-seventy-five realized that I didn't have a flute. Also, I pounds. found they had forgotten to mention not furMethod Number Two was invented espe- nishing this necessary instrument, so I knew cially for the corpulent. The idea is to tie I either had to buy a flute or use one at their some balloons to your carcass and float over studio. This alternative might have worked the table to your seat. out, only their studio was in New York, and By far the most complicated proceedure is I lived in Los Angeles. to squeeze between the side of the booth and The following day found me in a pawn the table. Fat men are again wholly excluded shop buying a very inexpensive flute. When from trying it. And not even the lean will I returned home, my playful pup Jasper was dare take a deep breath after sitting down, for the first one to express his delight at seeing fear of uprooting table, dinner, and all. it. In fact he saw it almost immediately—on After devouring with great gusto a large the floor. I tried to get it away from him, piece of fried rubber cow, remembering wist- but in the scuffle something tragic happened fully and longingly the good hamburgers you to it. One little piece that was obviously have eaten at the counter of a White Castle necessary to its musical properties slipped joint, and subsequently removing your pocket- off, rolled directly into the fireplace, and went book from its hiding place, you face the great up in smoke. problem of getting out of the booth. This is So did I, and my state of mind was buoyed comparatively simple if you have a logical up considerably more when a man from the mind: just reverse the method of getting in. pawn shop came to examine the thing and If it doesn't work, you can always saw your told me he had just discovered my ex-flute way out. was an exact duplicate of one which had been Having sawed, the sanest thing to do is owned by Marie Antoinette. In fact, if it run. Remember the old proverb, "I came, could be put back into working condition, it I sawed, I ran." It's never wise to go against would have a value of three thousand dollars. tradition. The man tried to repair it, and I tried to play it, but never a sound came forth again. A year has passed, and I haven't received Ready to Oblige Lesson Number Two. But if anyone would By Banner Bell, 10B like to invite me to a party without my flute, My nose is on my face, I shall be extremely happy to sit back in a My feet are on the floor, dark corner, twiddle my thumbs, and watch My shoes are tied with lace. other people show off. Want to know any more? Page Seven


THE IGORROTE Brief Items in Verse A genius is born, A genius grows; I wish I knew All that he knows.

He Rest in Pieces

With lead they plucked me by the ton, And now a worm's made a hole in one. Max Putzel, 10B

Banner Bell, 10B Here I lie and so do you, The others cry, but not for you. Max Putzel. 10B

Weather Forecast

Here lie the remains of the Perfect Tense, It died from being much too dense. Virginia Hanalan, 10B Here lies the body of poor old Sam, He died 'cause he didn't give a damn. Bill Reinhardt, 10B Christmas Cheer

In our window stands a candle, But on the holder is no handle. Bill Reinharat, 10B

Will it rain? Will it snow? Consult your paper: T don't know. Banner Bell, 10B Defeat

Dorothy Parker wrote some verse, So did I, but mine is worse. Robert Hoisaple, 10B Susie was a mermaid, but she isn't any more, For when the tide came in it left her on the shore. Norman Crasilneck, 10B

For Wells or Welles

Here lies his body under the stars, He kicked the bucket on his way to Mars. Shirley Dawiaoff, 10B I've heard about heaven, it's heard about me, But when my time conies, where will I be? BoT) Lolir, 10B

My teacher is a funny one, She gives me work that can't be done. Minor Fitzgerald, 10B Two Other Guys

Oh, I know a man named McTavish, But McTavish I never did see; If I've never seen McTavish, Where did we meet—him and me? Robert Holsaple, 10B Philosophy's so much better than rhyme (If you can't write poetry when it's time). Jackie Kratky, 10B Here lies the body of Margaret Stead, She was very gay, but she died in bed. Stanton Ramsey, 10B I see a bird-house in the tree, If a bird doesn't come soon I'll use it for me. Stanton Ramsey, 10B I used to think That a rhyme Had to. Norman Crasilneck, 10B

Here lies the body of Nimble Norma, She had a nice face, and oh, what a forma! Aileen Flanagan, 10B Christmas Party

The brilliant fireplace is of no earthly use, For in our hurry we forgot the fuse. Leslie Nachman, 10B Daddy claimed he caught a fish, Did he shoot us a line! He said the fish was six feet long, I know darn well it was nine! Jack Bushman, 10B Here lies the body of Steamboat Max, He kept on going and didn't relax. Shirley Dawidoff, 10B The Principal Source of Precipitation

The The The The

cirrus sweeps the blue just so, dark black nimbus hovers low; cumulus is missed in fall, stratus floats above them all. Banner Bell, 10B Drafted

So I'm in English class again, And I'll pay close attention, For if the teacher doesn't pass me, Then I won't get my old age pension. Norman Crasilneck, 10B I sat in the dentist's chair, And by mistake he pulled my hair. Norman Crasilneck, 10B

Page Eight


THE IGORROTE Me and My Other Half

Four Puppies I Have Known

By Alma Smith, 9B AS I LIE here in this dark closet, a disregarded, old and worn pair of shoes, my only consolation is to think of those better days when I used to go places. My memory goes back to when I was first taken out of my box and placed on Mr. Brown's feet. When he said, "I'll take them," I felt like a happy orphan on first being adopted. But to this day I don't know what he saw in me because I was just a plain pair of black shoes, and I wasn't very comfortable to wear. In those early days when I was being housebroken, I'd catch myself pinching Mr. Brown's toes or gripping his ankle so tight that he uttered a low cry of agony. The next few days Mr. Brown and I got along better and because of my splendid co-operation I received a shine and new laces. That evening I really began to go places. Just think! dancing with a high-heeled Pump! With two of them, in fact. I was enjoying myself thoroughly until Mr. Brown embarrassed me by clumsily stepping on one of the lovely Pumps. Going home, Mr. Brown didn't even hail a taxi and we had to walk in the rain. I was saturated with water and was sure I'd catch pneumonia. The next morning, however, I found that Mr. Brown had carelessly put me on the radiator and instead of having a bad cold I had a stiff neck. Mr. Brown didn't wear me for several days after this. One evening he brought home a queer fourlegged creature with a yiping voice. This creature seemed so lively as to be dangerous, so I tried to make myself as insignificant as possible. But somehow I happened to be the first apple of this creature's eye. He grasped one of me and gave it the shaking of my life. When it was all over I was minus a sole. One day shortly after, Mr. Brown put me on again and looked into the mirror. To my dismay I realized my age was beginning to show and wrinkles could be plainly seen. Mr. Brown noticed it too and he put me back in the closet. The next day he was sporting a pair of brown oxfords. These oxfords and I don't get along very well; for it's hard for people of a different age and race to get along. Now when I hear the supposed-to-be-music playing of the organ-grinder a fear pierces my sole, for some day soon I know Mr. Brown will lose his temper and fling me out the window directly in the face of a mischievous monkey.

By Bobby Sapin, 9B /y|AINY TIMES throughout my life I have been blessed with a steady companion, an ever-ready enthusiast and friend—a dog. The first one was a perky little toy bulldog. Our pet name for her was "Dixie," though her title in full read "Lady Beth of Devonshire." (How such a name happened to have been attached to her, I was never able to find out.) All her sternest disapprovals as well as her greatest satisfactions were vigorously and consistently demonstrated by a peppy wagging of the tail. If a burglar had ever come into the house, I am sure the only recognition "Dixie" would have given him would have been in a fierce wagging as he approached the money box or the silver drawer. The second pup was quite the opposite. A nibble at your shoe or a bite in the leg was evidence that you had been courteously recognized by "Inky." Inky was a coal-black, hairy little Scottie, whose teeth were just about as sharp as his bark. His pet hate was colored people, and this he kept no secret. Perhaps it is true that we dislike in others the faults that are the worst in ourselves, even if the fault be one of complexion. My next canine love was "Zippy," a perfect gentleman and an indefatigable playmate, a good specimen of the wire-haired terrier race. Zippy quite lived up to his name. He especially approved of playing, eating, and drinking cokes. You can see for yourself what a sociable creature he was. His attitude toward these pleasant diversions was always indicated by a frisky motion of his little spotted stern. Last among my pets was "Dutch," a fiveweek-old "curbstone setter" when we got him, but a real pooch. His favorite parking place was an old beer mug into which he fitted quite well. At night his only cradle was a comfortably equipped shoe box. His toys consisted mostly of doll shoes and rubber something-or-others, and his dinner service was a cup and saucer out of a child's doll set. Being friendly with dogs has really left memorable experiences with me, and I am sure that as long as I live I will never forget those joyful days I spent with them. Healthy Frustration By Norman Crasilneck, 10B The street car makes so darn much noise, Running down the track all day, I cannot hear the teacher talk, (As if I wished to, anyway!)

Page Nine


THE I G O R R O T E My Camera and I — at Seven By Baker Terry, 9B I RECEIVED ray first camera on my seventh birthday. It was a little, black, shiny one and must have cost all of fifty cents. Soon after that birthday, I left on a vacation trip. The camera, with a supply of film, went along. During the trip the lens of my camera saw everything from horses and cows to Niagara Falls and the Atlantic Ocean. During those first weeks with me the camera had many experiences, some of which must have been decidedly unpleasant. Its patience was probably sorely tried when it was dropped into the water or left lying on the sands. It didn't even whimper when its lens was scratched and numerous blows were inflicted, leaving ugly-looking dents and cracks. I am proud to say that through all of these misfortunes my camera held up most admirably. After exposing many rolls of film I returned home and immediately took my collection to a drugstore to be developed. I spent many anxious hours (two days, to be exact) awaiting the finished pictures. At last they arrived—a measly few. blurred images, some with heads running off the edges, others with the Atlantic coming up forty-five-degree slopes. Such facts as the number of double exposures are not for publication. But in spite of these results which would surely discourage almost anyone, I was really thrilled and very much pleased to find out that I could take what I (but probably only I) called pictures.

Potato Rebellion By Andy Mills, 9B DOTATOES in one form or another are usually considered an essential part of a well-balanced meal. People have been eating potatoes with their meals now for many years. Personally, I have no desire to change this long-standing custom nor do I doubt the urgent necessity for potatoes as a part of our diet. Probably the oldest and most common method of preparing a potato is to boil it. I imagine that the average person upon reaching social security age has eaten around 200,000 boiled potatoes, although I have no statistics to prove this. The fact is that most people take the boiled potato for granted; they do not even think about it when they eat one. No doubt if people would stop to consider how flat and tasteless a boiled potato is and how uninter-

esting it looks, they would openly rebel against it and refuse to eat any more at all. Frankly, though, I do not seriously believe that this will happen; and I realize that if such an event did occur, it would be a catastrophe; for it would throw many million potato growers out of work and would leave many thousands potato fields uncultivated. However, such an anti-potato outbreak is not an impossible occurrence. Greater American traditions than this have seen their downfall in the last decade. Therefore, I say to you, let our battle-cry be, "On to a Utopia where there are no boiled potatoes!"

Hunting in the Jemez Mountains By Jean Ellis, 9B IT TOOK several days to reach our destination, the Jemez Mountains. We traveled through a small desert, some sagebrush, and a forest of mesquite; our first sight of the evergreens at the foot of the mountain range was breath-taking. As we went up, the trees became more dense and a deeper green. The air was saturated with the fragrance of pine needles and wood. The trees, the tallest I had ever seen, were from one hundred to two hundred feet high. On the ground lay a thick carpet of pine needles. To the left were towering cliffs and to the right was a glistening lake. Never had we known such beauty! It was not long before we found a suitable place and pitched camp. There seemed to be a million things to do. I made the beds on the ground so that we could enjoy thick mattresses of pine needles. Those were our beds for almost two months. The first morning in camp we awoke bright and early to see the sunrise. After breakfast, which tasted extra-special in the open air, we all set out in different directions to hunt deer. For three days we hunted without success. During that time we saw many deer, but were not able to kill even one. On the fourth day after walking just a short distance away from the camp, I saw a deer only about twenty-five rods ahead of me. He sensed my presence almost immediately and started to run. I raised my rifle. The bullet hit right behind his shoulder, and he was dead before I got to him—a large buck with eight points. I had killed my first deer. It seemed that I had started the ball rolling, because that same day another member of the party killed one. The head of my deer now occupies a prominent place above our fireplace.

Page Ten


THE IGORROTE Resolved That . . .

I Take Up Photography

By Stanton Ramsey, 10B THE BIG CEDAR stood there, ready to begin the slaughter as I prepared to decorate it. The first thing we did was look for the ornaments. I went up to the attic and began hunting around. I threw some old boxes out of my way, and was I surprised when I heard an odd crash from within one of them! I opened it with misgivings and there were the ornaments in the past tense. I managed to salvage about ten of them and returned to the living room. After I had told my sad story to everyone who would listen, we started to build a new stand for the tree. Here we met with our second misfortune. There was no lumber other than what was left of the old stand, so the new one had to be made out of scrap lumber. Although it turned out to be rather flimsy I thought that if I prayed hard enough it might hold. We carried it into the living room, balanced the tree on top of it, and began to decorate. I placed a chair next to the tree so I could reach up to the top of it; but this was still not high enough so I added a stool to the chair. Then like a tight-rope walker I climbed up. The room tipped at a crazy angle. The tree came down on top of me and the few ornaments we had were strewn over the room. With my conscience and a few other things hurting I picked myself up and started all over again. We replaced the broken lights as we went — from the bottom up. We sprinkled the broken ornaments on the cotton under the tree. All went well until we started to put the Star on. Well, up went the chair, the stool, and me. Again I reached out. I heard a bark, arid over went the room, the tree, and me. Dazed, I began to hang up the stars that were around my head. When I finally came to, I picked myself up, and in a few profane words I made my first New Year's resolution.

By Alfred Kerth, 9B ^NE DAY a few years ago I took inventory of myself and found that I had no particular interest in any certain thing; so I began to look around for a hobby. After much consideration I decided to try photography, a hobby that, I was almost sure, would keep me both interested and bewildered. The next step was to get a camera. I visited most of the photography shops in the city and finally chose one of the more complicated-looking candid cameras. I then wrote a letter to "Santa Glaus," describing, in detail, what I wanted. On Christmas Day "Santa" pleased me greatly by bringing me the camera. Then and there I vowed that I would be a real candid camera fiend and, without further ado, sat down and made plans for dumping a roll of film into the thing. From that time on the members of my family have lived in constant terror; for, true to my vow, I have again and again caught them in what are unmistakably known as unglamorous poses. For the first few weeks, however, they were lucky; all I got back from the finishers were blank strips of celluloid. Later, as I grew more experienced, my films began . . . Ah! But that's another story.

Day Dream

I also wish that I could have a drink to soothe my head."

Last Night A Companion Piece to John Masefield's TOMORROW By Stanton Ramsey, 10B 0, last night my Uncle John drank thirstily and deep, The policeman came and grabbed him up and put him safe in keep. They led him from the raided bar before he went to sleep. But tomorrow, By the living God, he will be drunk again. Arid there upon the prison bench my uncle sat and said: "I wish that I were out of here so I could

go to bed.

By Perry Sparks, 9B I am sitting in the Study Hall And wondering why That's what it's called.

And tomorrow, By the living God, he will be drunk again.

Hopeful

Explanation

By Don Brereton, 10B I know why I'm going to college— To try to broaden my span of knowledge.

By Bon Brereton, 10B I had to choose between prose and verse: I chose this — for better or worse.

Page Eleven


THE IGORROTE Herlock Sholmes By Dorothy DuBard, 9i> lutY LIFE as a detective began in 1931 and it ended in 1931. On the evening of June 29th of that year, I was just beginning to think nothing ever happens anymore when my phone rang furiously. I took my time in answering it because just in case it was a client I wanted him to think I was important. When I finally answered, and my voice sounded nothing like my own, to my utter surprise I heard a loud shriek and the thump of a telephone landing on something hard. I just sat there in a daze and stared in front of me until it suddenly came to me someone might have been murdered. I got up quickly and ran all over the office trying to find my hat and cane. In the excitement I had forgotten they were right behind me. I nearly fell down the steps getting to the street. When I finally reached there (and in one piece) I remembered I had forgotten to remember to call my wife as was my habit in case I left the office.

"Taaaaxi!" Then it dawned on me that I didn't even know where I was going. Angry, I went slowly back to the office, trying to think of something to do. During this time only about five minutes had passed; so, thinking I could have the number traced, I dialed Operator. But regardless of the life or death of my client, and to the dismay of the operator and myself, I found it couldn't be done. Finally I called my wife to tell her of the strange call, and my little daughter answered. As soon as she found out it was I, she told me to come home quickly—that Mother had fainted. A few minutes later I was listening to my daughter's explanation. "And, Daddy, that's how it happened. Mummie saw the mouse and stood up on the stool. She lost her balance and dropped the phone; then she screamed and fell over."

Rusty By Richard Hetlage, 9B QNE MORNING Father joyfully announced that we were going to get a dog. This promised to be a great event in our lives, because we had never owned a dog. During the entire next week we debated the question of what kind it should be. My father wanted a large dog, my mother a small one. Brother and I kept quiet. About eight days later we all piled into the car and drove out to a farm in Illinois

where Irish Setters are raised. When we came home that evening, I thought the animal that we had in our car was a dog; but now I'm not so sure about it. We gradually became accustomed to a rather hectic existence. Just, picture this: The doorbell rings. Rusty happens to be upstairs. Look out! Here he comes! Rugs fly into big heaps. Chairs shoot out from their places. The peddler at the door soon vanishes. A grocery boy unfortunately appears in the kitchen. It is not long before his salvation depends on his legs alone. Rusty has bolted out and the chase is on! Our only hope is to catch the animal before there are too many complaints. Summer came. The screen doors were put on, and the others were open most of the time. As soon as Rusty learned to open those screens, we hooked them. But that didn't stop him. Right through he went, leaving holes almost large enough to accommodate full-grown elephants. It wasn't that we were easily disturbed. We bore up patiently during Rusty's childhood. The drinking of cream from the cream pitcher, the eating of whole cakes, and the sleeping in the best chairs became events that were more expected than despaired of. Then we moved. From that time on we had real trouble. Rusty began staying outside and sleeping in the garage. Then when he decided that the seat of our automobile was an ideal bed, he started the practice of jumping through the car windows. We closed them and thought that the problem had been solved. But Rusty had ingenuity. Out he went and enjoyed himself by jumping into other people's cars. That was the last straw. We had to give him away. We hated to do it, because as my mother said, "He has such personality." Lately we have had several reports from the people we gave him to. It seems that a new environment has not had the desired effect. He has eaten several cakes and delights in resting on the davenport in the bay window. We expect him back C. 0. D.

Slightly Retarded By Barbara Probe, 10B I know a girl named Susie Gage Who won't for the life of her admit her age. Of course if you were twenty-one last Sunday And just learning how to read the Funny You wouldn't dare tell folks your age; And that's the secret of Susie Gage.

Page Twelve


THE IGORROTE Surprise Attack

A Tight Squeeze

By Jane Brereton, 9B j WAS wandering through the woods on a day in October of 1700, on the lookout for Indians. Glancing about and seeing the beauty of the forest, I wondered how, in these surroundings, those red savages could be so cruel. I peered around so intently I tripped on a root. I grabbed at an overhanging vine, but the vine broke and I sat down in a pool of water. Feeling sure the Indians would jump on me at any moment, I looked warily around—still sitting in the pool.

By Ronald Lasky, 9B VES, CAMP was over. It was time to go home. After eating breakfast I decided to pack my things as quickly as I could so that there would be some extra time for doing anything that I wanted to before we left for the station. First I looked at the gigantic pile of junk on my bed, and next at my two suitcases, which, that day, seemed unusually small. Then and there I declared that it just couldn't be done. Although I was sure that I was wasting my time, I struggled for almost an hour, trying to fit things in at various angles. I became positively frantic. What, was I to do? I'd have given anything if my mother had been there with me then. How she ever packed all that stuff in two traveling bags to begin with is still a wonder to me!

With a start, I jumped up and tore out for home which was a mile or two away. Out of the corner of my eye I had seen an Indian. The hideous color of war paint on his face and the bright red feather at the back of his head showed through the thin foliage of a bush. The light tread in the brush behind me came nearer and nearer, and I ran faster and faster. All of a sudden everything was quiet and that was even worse than the noise. I peeped over my shoulder, very careful this time to pick up my feet, and then I saw him staring at me. He was a beautiful bronze color, and he was about the size of a California redwood. Certain that death was near, for the creature had started pursuing me again, all the things I had ever done in the past and all of the things I had ever wanted to do flashed through my mind. I knew the creature was gaining because I could hear grunting sounds, and I could almost feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. Suddenly our house came into sight, and I ran so fast I thought my lungs would burst. I reached the house a few feet ahead of him, rushed in, and slammed the door in his face. I locked the door and fell against it, gasping for breath. Turning around, I was confronted by Daddy. He looked at me very sternly and said, "Jane, how many times have I told you to quit acting like a child, running all over the lawn, and hiding behind trees? Look at your clothes. They're all torn and muddy! And running away from Lad — you know you'll never train him if you don't take better care of him. Now go upstairs and get washed up. We're having company to dinner." My dream castle crumbling around my head, I slowly climbed the stairs to my room.

So there I stood—the guy who wanted to finish packing early—with absolutely nothing done. Finally in desperation, I took one suitcase, emptied out about half the things that I had put into it, and pressed the lid down as hard as I could. After a gre^t struggle, I actually succeeded in getting that bag closed. But then came the problem of packing all the rest of the stuff into the other bag. Well, everything went in, so to speak; but there were a number of articles that didn't seem to fancy being confined within the four walls of the suitcase. I saw that assistance was absolutely necessary. I started shouting for help; and a few seconds later, three of my fellow-campers appeared. We all pushed, Art and Gerald on one side and Alan and I on the other. Still the stubborn thing wouldn't close. As the last resort I called to my councilor for help. And by employing what looked to me like conjurer's tricks, he did it. Boy! Was I relieved! Needless to say, I had no extra time for enjoying myself. In fact, the station wagon came very near leaving without me.

Resignation By Dolores Benson, 10B My kid sister's a pain in the neck; She tags along and she bothers like heck. But to my dismay, she's here to stay, And I gotta put up with her anyway.

Page Thirteen


THE IGORROTE Panorama

For Peace on Earth

By Max Putzel, 10B I see flowers everywhere in long-rowed vivid garden-beds, budding here, budding there, with blues and yellows, purples, reds— splashing gay and shrieking design of tones intense, yet sweet and fine. I see shy flowers of the spring hiding in niches of age-old trees; I hear the apple blossoms sing fragrant with scent that bends on knees (whom beauty touches now and then) the hardest, even, of hardest men. I see flowers through glass house panes planted in pots of baked red clay posing erect in neat, straight lanes; some shrieking again in lively play, but others quietly sit and sing, drowned by the hubbubs of their kin.

By Marjorie Poecker, 10B 0 World, do you call this Peace? Destruction of our civilization? Let all mankind feast For our country's own duration. Crumbling from earth to hell, Falling like rain above Into a deep, thunderous well, 0 World—let there be wisdom and love.

The Skipper By Janet Auer, 10B With innocent look he enters my room And sits beside my bed. With a sudden leap he jumps to my side And cushions his small soft head. He looks at me as if to say, "You don't have to go to school today. This is the day you spend at home, And through the nearby woods we'll roam."

I see flowers through window glass within the walls of dreary rooms, flowers the lowliest of their class,

for they are the slaves that break the gloom of places where no soul is stirred— of beauty of their songs, unheard.

I do not stir, I lie ever so still, Until he is quite perturbed; And I keep it up as long as I can— Until his soft bark I've heard.

A Couple o' Strikes and Ninety-nine Fouls

Nipped in the Nails By Norma Levy, 10B BUT ALL YOU have to do is stop biting your fingernails and they'll get to be inches long." So I took the suggestion and instead of biting my nails when Clark Gable kissed Hedy Lamarr I sat on my hands. For three weeks I persevered and finally I could begin to see a little bit of nail showing just above the quick. "Quick," I repeat to myself as I write, thinking that three weeks was a pretty long time if I can judge right. From the minute I first found that little bit of nail showing, that was all I could think of. Long fingernails like all the glamour girls. Glamour! Before long I was beginning to think this anti-biting campaign was a pretty good idea. And then it happened—the tragic day when rushing through the house at break-neck speed I didn't break my neck but only hit my left hand against the living-room door, and oh, my poor, poor fingernail that I had worked so hard raising! Take it from me, girls, there's no future in it, glamour or no glamour. Sooner or later your right hand finds out what your left is doing and it's all off. II

By Dolly Michelson, 9B T'S JUST too foul for me! How some I people can rave about a baseball game is more than I can understand. Although your seats are not in the sun (if you're extravagant enough to have boxes or reserved seats), the heat is sweltering. If a foul ball is struck, you must guard yourself to your best advantage or else risk getting a concussion, a broken arm, or at least the wind knocked out of you. The people who attend these games regularly can hardly be called mere baseball enthusiasts. In my opinion they are (I hesitate to say it) nuts. For example, take Mary Odd. If you have ever seen a game in her company you can easily get my point. To go into ecstasies over a three-base-two-strikesand-ninety-nine-fouls-is-an-out game is beyond my understanding. Baseball, I will admit, is a little more fun to play. But I can think of a better way to spend a dollar than to watch a crowd of men running around in circles as if they "don't have them all." No doubt I have already got some ardent fan's goat, but after all this is America!

Page Fourteen


THE I G O R R O T E Small Towns Preferred

The Highwayman

By Joyce Rosenberg, 9B I AM GLAD I have lived in a small town— a town with its Main Street, its bronze statue inscribed with the town's war heroes; churches, frame houses, the two-block business section, and a Mississippi Riverfront. What fun it was when I was a child and allowed to go downtown into the active business section, where I knew everyone and had no fear of getting lost. How could one get lost, when one knew the policeman, the

postman, and the storekeepers, and when one always met a neighbor or two? Our town was proud of its neighbors. We were all friends, regardless of religious or political views. In fact, religion and politics made up a good part of our front-yard discussions with the neighbors of a hot summer evening, In a small town one does not have to go far to pick wild flowers. We knew a hillside where the violets grew the thickest. Each April, with baskets on our arms, we would climb our violet hills and gather lovely purple flowers to our heart's content. And on Sunday afternoons the hikes along the bluffs and cliffs above the Mississippi afforded pleasures seldom equaled. In winter Nature gave us new thrills and adventures. The many snow-covered hills furnished safe places for tobogganing and coasting. And when we finally grew tired and cold, home was just over the next hill. We live in a Democracy, and a Democracy needs small towns. The people in them take an active part in civic and governmental affairs. They own their own homes (not just houses, but homes) ; they own their own businesses, or their own farms. And what people own they are proud of, they love, and what they love they fight for. As long as we have small towns, we will have citizens who will fight to keep them as they are.

(Greatly Revised)

By Don Brereton, 10B Down the slick, clean highway, Down cemented lanes, A well-dressed gent is coming, Or else I'm waiting in vain. With a big, black car a-shining, In the silvery light of the moon, At last he's come to greet me; I say to myself, "What, so soon?"

The full moon has arisen To great, magnetic power As he ascends my doorstep At this merry, moonstruck hour. He taps with his cane on the window, But all is silent as death; He vibrates the chimes in the hallway, While I just hold my breath. He's my curly-headed hero— What handsome eyes and pate! But, oh, how my Icnees are knocking! Just think—it's my first date!

The Night Raider

By Perry SparTcs, 9B Where is the place we all like best, Though we're there but a year or another half, The place that excels over all the rest, Where we may work or play or laugh?

By James Reinnarftt, 9B IT WAS a dreary night with the wind blowing and rain falling, when all of a sudden I was awakened by a peculiar noise downstairs. There was the slamming of a door, the rattling of dishes, and a strange mumbling sound. Then the clock struck twelve. Ought I go and see who it was? I got out of bed and started to put on my slippers when crash! a dish fell. I took my slippers off and jumped into bed. I pulled the covers over my head and shivered. At twelve-thirty I finally got up enough courage to go and make an investigation. I put on my slippers once more and started down the steps very quietly. When I came to the bottom step, I peeped around the corner. As I did so I shouted "Halt!" The prowler was a tall, broad, stout man clad in pajamas. He slammed the icebox door and he turned around. To my surprise and embarrassment, the marauder was my father. After laughing awhile, we sat down at the table to enjoy a midnight lunch.

We may play some, but we cannot shirk, For everyone's anxious about us and our work. You can plainly see if you're not a fool That the only place is Wydown School.

By Don Manners, 10B My couplets and quiplets are now all written, I feel like the dog that has chewed what he's bitten.

Gone Sentimental

Satisfaction

Page Fifteen


THE I G O R R O T E =34,

Life Begins at

Ah! For the Life of a Hermit! By Kafliryne Gage, 9B AFTER much debating over "the reason" which we will not give, but which you may guess if you like, we are absolutely definite about our future. Yet, it's a hermit's life for us! Oh, the joy of not having to be told to "pick up your room now" or "practice before you go out." And the glorious feeling of getting up when you want to and of not having to eat those squooshy lima beans. Just think! The wonders of it all! There would be a little log cabin with "Smage" and "Unwelcome" on the front door. There would be dogs and pets of different kinds to guard the house. Cats excluded! Living a life of mystery to the outside world. No other people to worry about. No one to interrupt and take us away from our thoughts. Complete privacy! These things make up the life of a hermit. And that's the life for us! (Smage, Inc.)

How Tuckett Almost Gottit By Sam HoUzman, 10B THIS IS THE stpry of World War Number Two as related by Beard and Beard whose beards turned white after the second war was over. It is one hundred per cent authentic. Any deviations from the original story are loudly unclaimed by the author. In the early nineteen-thirties a certain man by the name of Iodine Tuckett came to power in the Land of Pills. He was called Iodine because iodine burns and he burned everyone up. He was called Tuckett because he liked to steal and when anyone missed anything the people would say, "Iodine Tuckett." It wasn't long before Iodine the Pill declared war on the peace-loving Vitamins, his neighbors, because he thought their grass looked greener than his own. At the outset of the war millions of Vitamins were killed, and Tuckett was immediately so confident of victory that he changed his name to Gottit. The next thing he did was to send out a lot of Pills t,o burn up the Vitamins' munitions plants. But after a few years of Pilly successes the tide turned suddenly because no food could get into the Pilly country: the Vitamins had learned to sink the cells which brought food to the people's veins. Needless to say, the Vitamins won out in the end. All of which goes to show that Vitamins can kill any Pill.

...

By Virginia Fitzgerald, 9B W/HEN YOU reach the age of twelve, you are entering the awkward stage. Beware of it! If you think yourself abused you will be within your rights, for you are treated as both child and adult. That makes life twice as hard for you. You are expected to pay full fare at movie houses and on the bus, but with it all, you are forced to eat your carrots and retire at an unreasonably early hour. Somehow or another your body seems to be all hands and there appears to be no place for them. Inches are gained and pounds are lost, and your build is ruined. Self-conscious of your awkward proportions, you walk with your shoulders slumped, and are therefore considered lazy. Oh, you must not feel sorry for yourself. After all, you have a happy future to look forward to. Just think, you'll be over the awkward stage in about five years!

Junkies By George Ryan, 9B and 10B THERE is something about a junk yard that fascinates me—row on row of rust-colored skeletons surrounded by a musty odor of gas and oil that is perfume to my nostrils. The men that work there—well, you really can't call them mere men. They are super-creatures, nimbly dancing to and fro between the wrecks where no ordinary man would venture; wielding their mallets high above their heads, knocking off useful parts without; hesitation, making appraisals with a hasty glance of the eye as they weave among these magnificent structures of man's ingenuity. As in any business there are two distinct classes. For example, in the show business there are the actors, writers, producers, and such people that live in a world of their own. These are the insiders, and to them the audience is of lower intelligence. So it is in the junk business; the junkmen come first. Then there are scrap buyers, tool salesmen, auto mechanics, and small garage owners; such people comprise the insiders. But of all these, the junkman is supreme. You probably have passed a junkman on the street in the course of your life and never noticed him because he is like many dirty, shabbily-dressed working men. But if by chance you ever visit his junk yard, his kingdom where he is supreme lord over all and reigns in all his glory, you too will marvel at the way in which he carries on his business.

Page Sixteen


THE I G O R R O T E =»*,

Escape By Jack Sprague, 10B THE RAYS of the sun beamed and shimmered, stretching across the prairie and heralding a new day in. A glorious day, an adventurous day, the kind that causes the blood to race through the veins until you know you will go mad unless something happens to set you free. So it was with me as I flung all worldly cares to the winds, pressing unceasingly on the accelerator, causing the wind to shrill past the car, and the springs to utter a shrieking protest with every joltEscape! Yes, escape was within my grasp. Escape at last; mine for the taking—mine for a brief time. Escape from the ever-throbbing pulse of the surging multitudes within the grimy city. Freedom in the country—freedom for a single day; my one desire as my car flew down the highway, leaving all unpleasant things behind. Facing the unknown brought only joy to me. Even nature with her beauty shuns the city with its dirt and smoke; nature fears being marred and defaced and prostrated by the feet of the city. But there—there in the country, nature spreads her beauty over all things; equally she distributes her wealth. Yes, life in the country, life; life for one day. And then back to death—death for a lifetime.

My Conference With the President By Dick Smallwood, 10B CEVERAL weeks ago, in the capacity of J C. B. F. E. D. W. P. A. (Commissioner of Butchers and Flea Extermination Department of the W. P. A.), I was called to Washington to confer with the President. The matter to be discussed was of the utmost importance. The telegram which I received said so. Upon my arrival at the Capitol I was hurriedly escorted to the President's quarters. The President, hearing that I had come, immediately laid aside such trifling matters as reducing the national debt and keeping the country out of war. Without wasting any time we set sail for a week of fishing in the South Seas (at the Government's expense). This was the first time I had ever been in the Tropics so all I could say was, "Such fish! such beautiful country! such food! such women!"

When we came back to the States we had a big fish fry in Washington. Boy, was that frozen haddock good! At the Capitol I was introduced to many important people and a good many more who thought they were. A number of social functions—teas, receptions, and balls—were given in my honor, and at the last one of these parties five more letters were added to my already elongated title. My official title now reads: C. B. F. E. D. C. P. C. F. G. W. P. A. (Commissioner of Butchers and Flea Extermination Department, Companion to the President, and Chief Fisher of Girls of the W. P. A.). And the next time I am called to Washington for a Conference with the President I shall of course be ready to oblige.

My "Night Among the Pines" By Mary Louise Frey, 9B A GROUP of gay-hearted girls tripped wearily but happily into camp quarters, following their evening mountain walk. After a unanimous decision they placed their sleeping bags in a circle go that no one would be lonesome. As I settled down to sleep, I chanced to remember Robert Louis Stevenson's lovely essay on "A Night Among the Pines." My thoughts were boldly interrupted by an aggrieved and inconsiderate beetle who happened inside of my mosquito netting, and upon finding no outlet, proceeded to annoy me. Then several mosquitos and other indefinables cautiously entered my cove until there were more than enough visitors to have a party. What an enjoyable time they had at my expense, while I began seriously to doubt Stevenson's sincerity or sanity. Nature, resentful of my attitude toward her children, cooled my resentment somewhat with gentle drops of rain which rather added to my discomfort. And as I tried a second time to settle down to sleep after our fatiguing mountain walk, a burst of laughter ran through the air and again it seemed that I was to have no rest that night. But finally the heavens were lighted by twinkling stars which soon dispelled the gloom, and I wondered if a night among the pines wasn't after all as delightful as Stevenson described it. Thoroughly exhausted, I stretched out and was calm.

Page Seventeen


THE I G O R R O T E Beggar

Hokku Verses Smoke

The smoke, thick and black, With giant sooty hands Soils the tall white buildings. Doris Loesch, 9B

A fat teddy bear High up on the toy shelf Begging for a home. Dolly Miclielson, 9B Murder

Sharp clean blade of steel Cuts smoothly through and through The roast we had for dinner. Juaith Speotor, 9B

Stars

Stars like diamonds On a black velvet gown Sparkle in the sky. Hallie Flora, 9B Snow

A blanket of white, Covering the earth like smooth white cream Over chocolate pie. Sylvia Goldberg, 9B Library

Books arranged on shelves Like people sitting in even rows In a theatre. Sylvia Goldberg, 9B Home Work

Work that tonight is confusing Becomes tomorrow's subject In class. Xeal Brown. 9B April

Mist on the blossoms From a cold damp night Elope with the sun. Florence Zanzie, 9B Life

The golden flow of life Like a sunlit river stream Never stops for time. Alvin Knocke, 9B Death

Death is a welcome sleep At the end of a journey— Rest, peace, quiet. Skippy Binder, 9B White Clouds

Queer shapes and figures Floating in the deep blue skies Like wide bulging sails. Dorothy DuBara, 9B Fog

A curtain of mist Hangs over the earth Securing shadowy figures. Janet Bayliss, 9B

On Seeing the Sunday Cinema or How to Spend a Dollar to Save Three Dimes

By Shirley Dawidoff, 10B A FTER giving the rug a swish with the carpet-sweeper and letting the potatoes burn while Mama takes the top layer of dust off the Grand Piano I rush into the kitchen to join the family at "dinner." The charcoalbedecked food is served buffet style from the kitchen stpve—to save time. Then the race to see who can be ready first for the Sunday cinema. To reach the theatre before prices go up another dime, Papa passes up a few stoplights and finally pulls over to the curb amidst a chorus of back-seat-drivers' voices and the cop's motorcycle siren. Then with the ticket folded neatly in Mama's coinpurse all our eyes scan the gutters for a parking place. Eventually I spot one, and just as we climb out a fire-plug draws up and parks there. Papa finally parks the car about sixteen blocks from the movie, but after all that is cheaper than paying a quarter on a lot. Well. Papa gets the admission tickets one minute before two o'clock and we dash into the building only to hear that there will be a forty-five minute standing-wait for seats. Five. ten. fifteen minutes pass; and then, at the end of thirty, Mama, hot and overexercised by the long walk, falls into a faint. (Or was it the combination of raw chicken, burnt potatoes, and runny banana cream pie?) Next thing we know Papa and I are unwillingly following the stretcher bearing Mama from the movie. The papers said the pictures were two of the best, but I don't know; I think I've seen better.

Optimistic By Don Brereton, 10B I can drive a car, sail a boat, an airplane I command— Golly! Gee Whiz! Geeminee! I must be Superman!

Page Eighteen


THE IGORROTE "Nothing" By Dick Blocher, 9B UPON HEARING or reading the title which I have chosen to write about, you will most likely say, "But one can't write about Nothing. There's just nothing to be said on the subject." You might even say that it is not even a subject. That, my friends (and I know you are my friends), is where you are sadly mistaken. Nothing is the subject of a great many poems. For instance: Old Mother Hubbard Went to the cupboard To get her poor doggy a bone But when she got there what did she find? Nothing! I am forced to admit, however, that the dog might have preferred a bone, but a dog is a dumb animal and we shall have to make allowances for him. No doubt you have heard the comment, "Nothing is more interesting than a good book." Now all of us know that a good book is definitely interesting, and therefore the subject about which I am about to scribble a few decent thoughts is more interesting than a good book. This is not an original idea, of course, but most good ideas are not original. And so much for the merits of Nothing as a topic for a sane person to use in the composition of a manuscript. It is Saturday, and Mr. J. Q. Snubgrubble has promised his darling wife, Mrs. Minnie Snub-whatchamacallit, that he will, without fail, fix the alarm clock so that it will ring at eight a. m . when it is set for eight a. m. He has also promised to open the door to the guest room, which is never used anyway. The moment he is dressed, J. Q. dashes downstairs to breakfast, then upstairs for the alarm clock, down into the basement to the workbench, to the hardware store to get some parts for the clock; back to the house, down to the workbench, to the hardware store to get some parts for the clock; back to the house, down to the workbench, upstairs to answer the phone, next door to get the neighbor's cat down from a tree; back home again, hurry, faster, get going, step on it, all day long from early morning until dinner time. And what does all this rush mean? What does J. Q. accomplish? Nothing! The only recognizable change in the situation is that the alarm clock doesn't ring at all—now. And the door to the guest room is in such a hor-

rible condition that it will take at least five coats of paint to remedy it; better still, they might get a new door. And so—"Much Ado About Nothing."

Supersalesman By Charles Rollins, 10B gUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! kept sounding in my ears. I finally opened the door and came face to face and foot to foot with a small, well-dressed young man carrying a huge black suitcase. "Good morning, Sonny," he began with a broad smile on his face. "Is the lady of the house in?" At the sight of Mother his wellprepared speech explaining how he was working his way through college (one to teach brush salesmen how to end their sales talks, I hoped) began to pour forth. He was a little man, but oh, what a line he did have! In a rapid, sing-song manner he proceeded to cut loose. "I am showing the newest line of stock of the Atlas Brush Company. The brushes are easy as—as A.B.C. to use. Ha, ha! that's my own slogan and I thought it all out myself! These brushes make every day a holiday. They lighten your pains and efforts and do a perfect job. Today we are offering an amazing value to you for a limited time only. A bargain like this comes but once in a lifetime. This handy little brush costs but sixty cents—only half a dollar plus a dime. It is a general utility brush that no home is complete without; it will fulfill any purpose you put it to from brushing your teeth to combing your dog's hair." Finally Mother managed to get a word in and said she did not care for any brushes today. But the salesman continued: "Now, don't tell me you intend to pass up the greatest opportunity of a lifetime! You will never see another brush like this one. The bristles were taken from the wild Siberian hog and the solid bone handle you see is made from the horn of the rare Unicorn." I guess he thought I didn't know there wasn't any such animal. Mother, trying to get away, said she was busy and had to get back into the house. As she started to close the door the salesman stuck his foot inside so the door wouldn't shut. The harder she pushed, the faster the man talked on about the wonders of his products. • With a disgusted, half-defeated attitude he said, "I'll leave you to your regrets, then, but (Continued on next page)

Page Nineteen


THE IGORROTE SUPERSALESMAN (Continued from page 19) I knew Barnum was right when he said, 'A sucker is born every minute.' " About this time Mother was becoming even more disgusted than the salesman, and supposing that the only way to get rid of him was to buy his brush, asked the price again. (I think she decided it was worth sixty cents to get rid of him.) "Seventy cents," was the reply. "Seventy!" Mother exclaimed. "What made the price go up in the last few minutes?" "These brushes, Madame," replied the salesman, "are in such great demand that the price goes up a dime every ten minutes—a penny a minute."

Revelation By Juditn Spector, 9B VOU KNOW the kind of town it was. A place where everybody knows everybody else. A place where the family business passes from generation to generation. A place where one person's troubles are everybody's troubles—a typical small American village. Now in this village there was a church. It wasn't very large, but it was a nice church— the kind a man could walk into and not lose his soul in the vastness of a huge abbey. Yes, it was a comfortable church. And its one treasure was a stained glass window in which the Holy Virgin was portrayed. The Virgin's eyes were full of pity. You sensed they had a message to give. And somehow when you looked into the Virgin's face you could see all the suffering of the human race for ages past. It wasn't like any other of the conceptions of the Holy Mother, but like all holy things it had a meaning all its own. In the village there lived a little boy not much younger than you or I. A typical American boy, a fun-loving boy full of impulsive mischief and quick repentance. Now this little boy, Johnny by name, had a slingshot of which he was very proud. This pride he was accustomed to showing, and not always when he was in the safest places. But the target that Johnny wanted most to tackle was the stained glass window. He had a reason, though. Every Sunday he had to sit in that church in the stiff pews and his knees grew sore with kneeling. More than that, he was always bored by the sermons. If he had listened to them more closely, he might have learned that Vengenance was not his, but the

=»*,

Lord's. But in his little way Revenge was to break the stained glass window, and oh, how sweet the thought! But to get up the courage to do it, that was quite another problem. But on this particular day Johnny had finally mustered up just enough courage to enable him to go through with it. The huge monster-night had already spread its gigantic claws over all the earth when Johnny slunk out of the house armed with his precious weapon. He made his way slowly toward the church, avoiding the light cast out by the street lamps. Arriving at the church he sauntered up to the window and gazed upon the Virgin Mother with all his visionary powers, taking in every detail of her face. Suddenly a slow melodious voice spoke to him out of the darkness. "It is beautiful, isn't it, my Son?" Johnny spun around to face the speaker. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. It was only the priest. But the clergyman went right on speaking without waiting for an answer. "Sometimes when I get all ruffled and angry at the world I come out here and just look at her, and somehow the turbulent waves of my soul are quieted and then I feel that I have the strength to go back and face another day. She's like that, isn't she? She seems to know when things have gone wrong and she just sets them right . . ." The priest went on speaking and his voice droned on and on in Johnny's ears, but Johnny wasn't listening. He was listening only to a subconscious voice inside himself that told him he could never really shoot that window—because even if he did he would only shoot a likeness and the real thing wouldn't be harmed at all. Suddenly the voice became familiar and he knew he was listening to the priest once more. ". . . and so you see, my Son, that religion is a great thing and without it mankind would be in a pitiable state amongst all the wars that rage around us." And then as if by divine revelation Johnny knew the priest was right and that his little subconscious voice was the same as the priest's, for after all religion and conscience cannot be separated. Johnny looked up into the priest's face and said, "Thank you, Father." Then he turned away and with his slingshot still underneath his coat he walked home with a calm spirit.

Page Twenty


THE IGORROTE Fisherman's Luck

Fate Plays a Trick

By Robert Kilgen, 9B IT WAS a warm summer night on Miami Beach, and Hal, Jack, and I were nightfishing in the surf. We had been throwing our lines out into the darkness for quite a while when a soft, silvery glow came out of the East, and the misty Miami moon rose gently above the horizon. Out in the water we saw what we at first believed to be a body floating. The object came closer and closer to the shore, then came out of the water and advanced toward us and up the beach. We turned our flashlights on it and looked upon the moat enormous turtle we had ever seen. We got around behind it and while Hal took the back flipper and I the front, Jack turned her over on her back with great effort. Then, having heard of the good prices received for green sea turtles, we rushed madly up to our apartment to bring the folks down to see the prize. One look at the turtle and my Dad went up to the lighthouse and brought back with him the fisherman who bought all sorts of sea food. Mrs. Turtle was now lying on her back trying to punish herself for her folly, digging her flippers into the sand with such vigor that she slapped herself on the head with some resounding whacks. When the verdict was pronounced, it proved to be a loggerhead turtle weighing almost three hundred pounds. The fisherman then asked us whether we saw the turtle coming out of the water or going in. When we told him she was coming out he said, "Too bad, boys. She was coming up to lay her eggs in the sand and it. is unlawful to take her unless she was returning to the sea. A loggerhead may be compared to a green sea turtle as a calf to a bull. The eyes of the loggerhead are about like golf-balls and the beak resembles a horse's hoof. The meat is too tough to eat but is good in soup, and the liver, which weighs twenty-five or thirty pounds in a turtle this size, is excellent. This is one of the most vicious turtles in the sea and it was lucky for me that I didn't lose my grip while I was holding its front flipper only four inches from the mouth. After such an experience I am looking forward with great enthusiasm to my next trip to Miami, which will be the twentieth of this month. I plan to go for a two weeks' fishing trip in the Gulf Stream—where you never know what will be at. the end of the line as you feel that thrilling tug at your hook.

By Virginia Handlan, 10B QEORGE MONTGOMERY, better known to his fellow-racketeers as "Monte," had just hit upon a new idea. "Listen, Joe," he yelled to one of his accomplices, "do you remember Alexander Von Swoon's secretary?" "Yeah," drawled Joe O'Grady, who was just waking up from a mid-afternoon nap. "Well, I saw her today and she said that Von Swoon is putting his three millions into a little bank in Springfield, Indiana. Afraid of New York banks, I guess. What say we go to this place, get in good with the population, and one day pull a neat little job and walk off with the millions?" "It's 0. K. with me, Boss," answered Joe, still only half-conscious. "Let me think for a minute, now," said Monte. "We could take a little more than a thousand with us and use the thousand for charity donations — some to the Orphans' Home, some to the Churches, and so on. Say, that's about the keenest idea I've had in about five years." That night saw two men and a thousand dollars or so safely aboard the train to Springfield, Indiana. They pulled into the station about seven the next morning. Two lone men got off and prepared to find a hotel they could stay in where they could sleep until noon, the time they usually got up. Monte could hardly believe his eyes when he saw people stirring, going about their day's business. "Well," said Monte, who was very well up on his sayings, "when in Indiana, do as the Hoosiers do." The two men registered at the Royal Hotel, the best in town. At the desk they were met by the smiling face of Dorothy White, the daughter of the town's leading business man. "Good morning," she said. "Do you want a room?" For a full minute Monte, stunned by her beauty, did not answer. When he came back to earth he answered, "Yes, a room for two." Monte was an intelligent man and when he had got settled the first thing he did was to visit the Orphans' Home and for one whole day actually stayed and played with the children. He seemed greatly interested in them and two weeks later the manager was not even surprised to find a donation from him. It was four hundred dollars. The First Christian Church was the next on (Next Page, Please)

Page, Twenty-One


THE IGORROTE FATE PLAYS A TRICK (Continued from page 21) his list. The only reason he could think of for giving them three hundred was that he liked the charity work they were doing. But he was nearly scared to death when he learned they wanted him to give a speech for them. He got out of it very easily, however, by adopting a sore throat. Monte felt he was realizing his goal. The people were beginning to think of him as a very good man. But he must still do one thing more—he must give his remaining three hundred dollars to some organization. It went to the Christian Church's Ladies' Aid Society, for all the good things the women of the church had said about him. Monte was now flat broke and ready to get to work. In the middle of making his final plans for the robbery, a letter came from New York. It was from Von Swoon's secretary. Dear Monte, I am sorry but I made a terrible mistake about the bank Mr. Von Swoon put his money in. It was in the bank at Springfield, Missouri. Love, Evie. As Monte read the letter an expression of violence, then of bitterness, then of self-hatred in his face changed at length to one of gloom, then of amusement, and finally real relief and actual happiness. "It won't be bad staying around here where people respect me a lot, anyway. I can get a decent job in almost no time, the waypeople in this town feel about me. Eh. Jo?" "Sure, sure. And you can get better acquainted with Dorothy White, too. Maybe her old man will give you a job." "Well, the minute he does, we'll try to work you in on something, too." But Joe was gone—probably to Springfield, Missouri, to visit the banks.

I Mix My Drinks By Patricia McCary, 10B I HAD TWO speeches to make that afternoon, and as I had never spoken in public before, you can't imagine how I felt. At last my first fatal moment arrived. As I stood there on the speaker's platform, I leaned for support on the small table in front of me and it wobbled exactly as my knees were doing. I finally opened my mouth to speak (I had to, sooner or later), bearing in mind all the preparations I had made for the

occasion. I was going to fake a hoarse throat. The week before, I had had a terrible cold but was over it now. I had my car parked at the back door, and when I got up on the platform and found that I couldn't speak I was going to walk right out, get into my car, and whiz home. When people started calling to inquire about me, they would be told that I had a seriously infected throat and couldn't make either speech. So, I opened my mouth to speak. The words began to come very naturally! I was both surprised and horrified. Here I was standing in front of a lot of people I'd never seen before and never expected to see again, talking as easily as if I had done it all my life! As I finished speaking, I felt that I had accomplished something wonderful. People congratulated me and I felt proud. On the way to my car I threw away my notes for that speech and continued on to my second appointment. Upon my arrival I walked into the building and swaggered up to the platform, feeling proud and confident. I laid my speech before me, took a breath, and began. After I had given the first paragraph the audience seemed to be getting restless. I started with the second, and throughout the auditorium I could see looks of surprise, critical looks, smiles, and smirks. I looked back at my notes, and my eyes rested on the title. My face got red. I stood there trembling for a moment, then rushed out. I hurried home and wouldn't see anyone for two days; I thought I would never live it down. Just imagine what it would be like, if you can. to have given the wrong speech to the wrong group! The first audience didn't seem to realize it because I had been allowed to choose my subject. (Though why a crowd of agriculturists should care to hear a sermon on body culture is more than I can understand.) But to the second group I had spoken on how to raise a litter of pigs—and my audience was made up of a group of society debutantes! From that day on, I have refused all invitations to make speeches. That is, if anybody ever asks me again, I shall refuse. Brain Fag

My mind so often seems to be Forty miles away from me; If I endeavor To be clever I lack ingenuity.

Page Twenty-Two

Jack Sprague, 10B


THE IGORROTE At the Dial Side or Vicious Circle

By Sally Barrows, 10B Click . . . "your mother-in-law. Her face will beam with pleasure when she tastes your cake made with . . ." Click . . . "Red Heart Dog Food. Just watch Spot run when it is time to . . ." Click . . . "clean the rug. A Bissel's Sweeper is the best. It will pick up every bit of ..." Click . . . "Campbell's Tomato Soup on your table tonight. Serve it with . . ." Click . . . "a Woodbury Facial Cocktail. Have you ever wanted your complexion to look divinely fair? If so use . . ." Click . . . "Barton's Dyanshine. Make your shoes wear longer and look better with..." Click . . . "Lux Flakes on your stockings. It protects them from runs and saves . . ." Click . . . "your hair. Don't be an old man before your time. Instead, use Fitch's Shampoo and keep . . ." Click . . . "your stomach. Don't wait! Call your druggist today and order . . ." Click . . . "a Steinway Piano. Listen to the silver tone. You never miss a note. It is . . ." Click . . . "a sure-hit rifle, guaranteed for quality and safety. You can be sure that you will hit . . ." Click . . . "your mother-in-law. Her face will beam with pleasure when . . ." Click . . . "a black-out is reported . . ."

mas tree has always been my favorite midnight holiday pastime. The midnight chimes are ringing. I feel as if I am falling from the chair I am standing on. Falling, falling, down, down . . ." John Collins awoke with a start and glanced around. He found himself on the stone floor of his cell. With his hard, roughened hand he brushed away the tears of realization — he had only been dreaming. With a heavy sigh John put a straight line on the wall showing that one more day of his three-year term had gone. "Perhaps," he mumbled slowly, "perhaps in another year my dream will come true."

New Orleans, the Old City of the Deep South

By Ellen JacoTison, 9B R TRAIN was approaching the railroad yards. I looked out at the tracks, the luggage, the trains going out and coming in, and the people—swarms of them. We came to an abrupt stop. "We're here," I sang gaily. Getting off the car, I felt the hot air surrounding me. It felt very different from the delightful coolness of the air-conditioned train. I suggested that we go to the hotel and freshen up before doing any sight-seeing. Soon we found ourselves riding swiftly through the narrow streets and up to the door of the Hotel Montelenone, which is situated in the old French quarters. Just Another Day Over By Shirley Daicidoff, 10B Later in the morning when we were walking "| JOHN COLLINS, am very proud as I through that particular section, we saw an ' look back over the last ten years of my old museum, a French perfume shop, the St. life. Think of all that I have accomplished— Louis Cathedral, the old French market, and Nita and I together. We are the parents of the quite antiquated houses with their beautwo rosy-cheeked, curly-haired children, and tiful balconies of wrought iron—graceful and I am the proprietor of a chain of grocery lace-like. stores. Could any man ask for more? In the afternoon we visited the parks and "I recall with a long sigh of relief and enjoyed walking under huge palms and semigratitude that blessed day of my release from tropical plants. Then toward evening we the State Prison. How awkward, how drove through an old cemetery. The graves wretched, I felt on that day, wearing an ill- were above the level of the ground, because fitting suit and having but five dollars and a the city was originally built around a canal. In the restaurant La Louisiana we were railroad ticket in my pocket. And not a friend in the world outside the prison walls. served a typical French dinner, including "So I started on the upward climb, humili- seafood with Creole sauce. We learned that ated and disappointed. Some kind man gave the place had been visited years before by me a job in a grocery store, and in a few President McKinley, Theodore Roosevelt, and years I was able to marry Nita, who had by such famous stars as Al Jolson, Rudy waited all those years for me. Blessed Nita! Vallee, and Dolores Del Rio. "Tonight is Christmas Eve, also our eighth So ended our first day in New Orleans—a wedding anniversary. Trimming the Christ- proud and beautiful old city. Page Twenty-Three


THE IGORROTE

-

PATRONS Mr. and Mrs. 0. E. Babcock "Bee-Knee's" Mrs. W. K. Bliss Mr. and Mrs. Emil B. Brill Byron Cade Clayton Camera Shop Colby-Witt Shoe Company Cole Drug Company Ellis Drug Company Ann Eckman Beauty Salon J. T. Eversole, Inc. Mr. and Mrs. Julius Feick A Friend Glaser Drug Company Louis Goldberg Mr. and Mrs. Alvan J. Goodbar Mr. and Mrs. A. A. Haas Mr. and Mrs. H. A. Hoffmann Human Brothers Hardware Oscar Kampen Service Station H. B. Keath Klein's Food Shop Mr. and Mrs. Tom E. McCary, Jr. Mangrum's Grill Midland Importing Company Mr. and Mrs. Dale E. Neiswander Oakland Barber Shop Mr. and Mrs. John P. Ossenfort, Jr. The Parkmoor Mr. and Mrs. P. E. Peltason Perfection Cleaners and Tailors Precise Photo, Clayton Wm. H. Reinhardt G. C. Rud, Druggist Mr. and Mrs. M. Schneider Mr. and Mrs. Frank Siegel Mr. and Mrs. H. W. Sparks Dr. and Mrs. H. I. Spector Mr. Chas. J. Tacke S. Owen Taylor Mr. and Mrs. Baker Terry Elizabeth Kester Turk and Son Mr. and Mrs. Hubert L. Williams

Page Twenty-Four


1940 - Igorrote Vol 4 No1 - Wydown - 27 pages  

This is the 1940 Igorrote Vol 4 No 1 magazine for Wydown Middle School in Clayton, Missouri.

Read more
Read more
Similar to
Popular now
Just for you