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We dedicate this issue of the Igorrote to Aileen Lorberg whose interest in creative writing makes possible our literary publication. The Wydown School

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'Published Semt-Annually by the Students of Wydown School In Two Issues for the Year 1940-1941.

25 Cents a Copy


THE I G O R R O T E Conceit

The Staff

By Edward Keath. 9A If life's success is measured By the rule of conceit, I dare not think in number Of the folks who are elite.

FACULTY ADVISERS Literary Business Photography Cover Design

Aileen Lorberg Rose Evertz .-Robert Lemeri Dorothy Leggitt

STAFF ASSISTANTS Faculty Kathryne Lyle ~\ Dingle Martz > Ruth Miller )

Literary

Students Nancy Babcock Elinor Binder Arthur Lander (

Business

Alan Mariam Andy Mills Elmer Baumer Edward Keath Al Kerth Andy Mills Spencer Payne Baker Terry Yvonne De Rennaux June Rosen

-Photography

j (

Cover Design

The Gas Man By Robert Holsaple, IDA f^AS MEN are wonderful people. Now, as an example, take our gas man, Mr. It X. Plodes. Mr. Plodes is a small man with a short, dishwater-colored beard; he always carries a flashlight. I've often wondered why he carries this illumination gadget, because he never uses it. When it's dark, he uses a match to read the meter. Mr. Plodes does his work methodically, never getting excited or angry. He politely knocks at the back door; and when it is opened, says, "Giz Mini." After being admitted he shuffles to the basement and nonchalantly reads the meter that I've been trying to figure out for months. Mr. Plodes looks up at the meter and doesn't mind if a spider comes down on his face. He just brushes it off and drops a wrench on it. One day when Mr. Plodes was taking out our old gas meter, he chanced to eat his lunch in his truck which was parked in front of our house. As I walked past, I heard him and the driver talking about Mr. Plodes' brother.

Hunting with a Strainer or We Hope He Isn't a Family Man By Donald Manners, 10A "THERE has been a great deal of hunting around my house lately. Our would-be prey is a bold creature that dashes all over the different rooms and down into holes. His color is light gray; and he has two pink ears. a pink nose, and a long, gray, rubbery tail. Yes! You guessed it. He is a field mouse. Our principal weapons used against this creature are: (1) one large vegetable strainer and (2) several mousetraps. (By the way, those traps aren't so good. I had one in my room once, and I didn't discover the mouse in it until about a week later. He was in a deplorable condition.) But to get back to our hunting. Our first experience with this mouse was at Christmas time. The Christmas tree was up. and I believe we were listening to Baby Snooks. I happened to glance at the radio. What should I see but a shy little face peeping at me from behind one corner! He was gone in an instant, but you can imagine how I felt —something on the order of Columbus or Balboa. The second time he visited us we were all sitting around the fireplace. What should come dashing across the room but our little elfin-faced friend! My mother and cousin immediately climbed up on the nearest pieces of furniture; I did a neat bit of high jumping myself. The mouse dashed around a little bit and then ran into a hole. I don't know how we'll be able to kill him now, as he is almost one of the family.

Hydrogen, who was Jack Benny's gas man. They were guessing about Hydrogen's fate. Once I asked Mr. Plodes if he had any children; and he said that he had one son. Nitro, who was going to be a gas man when he grew up. Mr. Plodes was training him. For example, the day before he had shown Nitro how t,o flick off a large spider and squash him on his arm. Mr. Plodes didn't tell me how to do it; so I gathered that it was a family secret. Yes, gas men are wonderful people.

Page Two

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THE I G O R R O T E Fishing

Z-Z-Z-Z-Z

By Richard Bradley, IDA

By Sally Barroivs, 10A You really have no notion How frightful it can be, When you look at your report card And find you have all Z's.

^AANY say that people's minds run in the same channels; but I think we all differ very widely in our reasonings and, no less, in our pleasures. Now take me, for instance. There are few things on God's earth that I like more than holding a rod in my hand and having the water of a clear, cold trout stream lap my boots. It is a great feeling to be out on your own—fishing, thinking, and resting after a dull and dreary week of hard work in a hot. stuffy office, foul with the stench of human sweat and cigarette smoke, a place where people snap at each other like hungry lions. Some men and boys like to bowl, golf, or go to shows; but, for me, these amusements seem to be too mapped out in advance. If a person wants those things—all right. But for an ever-changing sport that never fails to interest, I'll stick to fishing.

Moments of Torture By Perry Sparks, 9A CLOWLY I opened the door and stuck my head into the room. Sure enough, there they were, all in their seats. I was shaking like a leaf, and cold beads of perspiration were coming down my forehead. As I walked in, it seemed that every eye was upon me. Why did I ever let myself in for this ordeal? My hands were cold, and I could feel all the blood rushing from my face. Stealthily I advanced to my seat, amid much whispering and many sly glances. To think that I was the center of such a thing! Why. why did I ever say I would do it? As I sat there waiting for my name to be called. I resolved that it would never happen again. I was unconscious of everything that went on around me. What's that? My name called? The fatal moment had arrived. I arose and staggered to the front of the room. I heard the dry, faltering tones of my voice. . . . Then, at long last. I was finished. I went back and sat down in my seat. I tried to compose myself. I even lifted my head up and attempted to look someone in the eye. I was so miserable that I don't remember what happened during the rest of the class period. You can be sure that it will be a long time before I volunteer to give a report again.

The Lassie in the East (A Parody on "I Love My Jean," by Robert Burns)

By Jacquelyn Hellmich, 10A Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I rarely love the East, For there the boney lassie lives, The lass I love the least.

My Experience in Smoking By Jack Bushman, 10A Dear Mom, I am feeling fine (1 think). I guess you've heard of all these cigarette ads—you know. "Smoke this and that" and "Get a lift" etc. Well, I smoked a Camel last, night. Talk about being lifted! I thought I was walking on air. Here's how it all happened. We were playing a little game of chance, and I was losing heavily (19 cents). One of the boys offered me a cigarette, and after a little coaxing, I started to smoke it. Seeing I was a greenhorn at smoking and realizing I was sort of gullible, he told me to inhale. Here's where all the trouble started. I felt woozy and light, then heavy, like lead; and all of those pink elephants kept marching up and down, and down and up. About two o'clock in the morning I felt sick at my stomach, and to avoid embarrassment I told the boys that I had lost something outside and was going t,o get it. Of course, you know what happened. It came up—all at once, too. Feeling better, but still not normal, I said, "I think I'd better quit." After much confusion and fast talking I wobbled to my tent. All in all, Mom, I was in a pretty serious condition. In a little game of chance (in which, of course, you have no chance to win) I lost 79 cents, my pants, two medals, and my health for some hours after. But don t worry, Mom. I've learned my lesson—good and plenty. All I can say is "Never again— no sir!" Well, Mom, I guess that's all I have to say except— Lots of love. Homer. P. S. I need some money for pants and other bare necessities of life.

Page Three


THE IGORROTE Picturesque Speech * - ';

Her eyes were like a student's fingers on examination day — crossed. Norman GrasilnecTc, IDA She attracts men as a light attracts moths. June Rosen, 10A Like a steamboat she came puffing into the room. Stanton Ramsey, 10A Her nose was like an airport beacon, always shining. Robert Holsaple, IDA He was a big hulk of laughs. Richard Bradley, IDA Winchell's words were oiled with wit, and slid forward without friction. Leslie NacJiman. IDA When it gets cold he shivers more than a pneumatic drill. Sol] Bliss, 10A She had a permanent wave — in her hips. Norman GrasilnecTc, 10A The sneeze came, like a tornado, and was followed by a heavy mist. Banner Bell, 10A Her heart was a fish bowl, open to every,. , ,. one s observation. Shirleii Dawidoff. 10A IDA Shirley Dawidoff, A prison is like a calendar, full of numbers. Robert Holsaple, 10A He is a regular time bomb; he always blows up when his fuse gets short. Richard Bradley, IDA As red as W. C. Field's nose. Robert Holsaple. 10A The poplar Indians.

trees:

stately,

tall,

She is more, variable than the weather, June Rosen, 10A • Hitler has more power than Boulder Dam. gol) Bliss, 10A As truthful as a mirror. Norman Orasilneck, 10A Her hair is like a chameleon, always changing colors. Sally Barrows, 10A • : He collects stuff as though he were a vacuum cleaner. sob Bliss, 10A A girl is like a train, either streamlined or otherwise. Stanton Ramsey, 10A The raindrops: dancing little elves. Sally Barrows, 10A She is a kernel of pop corn, always jumping when things get hot. Richard Bradley, 10A He is taller than his tales.

Jung RoseHi 10A

Europe has been tossed about more than a drink in a cocktail shaker. Bolt Bliss.-IDA She was as touchy as a pin-ball machine in a pool hall. Charles Rollins, 10A My

friend is like opium— a dope.

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Sally Barrows, 10A

silent

Sally Barrows. 10A Your mouth is as big as the crack made by the San Francisco earthquake. Shirley Kiihnmuenoh, 10A

Clothes are the skin of our civilization, machines its muscles, buildings its cells, traffic lanes its veins and arteries, minerals its food, vehicles its corpuscles, and man its soul. Max Putzel, 10A

Page Four


THE I G O R R O T E My Sister Goes Out

Yum! Yum!

By Norman Crasilneck, 10 A DING-NG-NG-NG-NG. (Phone) "Hello. Who? Just a moment please. (Away from phone) Suzy. Telephone for you." "Hello. Hello! (Enthusiasm) How are you? Where are you? When'd you get in? Have a good trip? Good. Yes. Yes? Yes? Really? That'd be swell! I don't know. Wait a minute; I'll ask Mother." Bz-z-z-z—bz-z-z. (Mother and Daughter have a short conference.) (Daughter goes back Lo phone.) "Hello? Yes, I can. I will. Okay. Are you going to wear a hat,? . . . high heels? . . . coat? . . . What kind of dress? Oh, that one? That's just darling. Well, I'll see you in about fifteen minutes. G'bye." (There are fifteen minutes of bedlam—mad rushing about, searching, and the like. Then the doorbell rings.) "Heffie Noodleman! Am I glad to see you!'' "Hi, there, Suzy. How are you? You're looking fine!" "I am fine. You're looking good, too." "Suzy, this is Si Lumkins—and this is Lemuel Hobear. Si and Lem, this is Suzy Que." "How'ja do." "How'ja do." "How'ja do." "Just a second, while I get my coat. Make yourselves at home." (She rushes into her room, gets her coat, and then rushes out.) "Okay. Let's go." "Right," "We're off." All of this I heard from my vantage point in bed at about ten o'clock. I had been awakened from my deep slumber by the bell which you heard just before the telephone conversation. I didn't know what the heck was going on, and I didn't much care; so I went back to sleep. This is what I learned in the morning: The person who called to speak to my sister was her sorority sister, who had just arrived in town from college. There were two boys with her. and they wanted to do something. Since my sister wasn't going anywhere that night lit was a school night), she said she would go. Then the fifteen minutes of bedlam. In it, by means of comb, brush, mirror, soap and water, clothes, make-up, cosmetics, and more cosmetics, my sister transformed herself from

By Dick Donnelly, 9B There it was — A steaming hot plate Of crisp, appetizing ham, Lying beside a newly fried egg.

That Lazy, Listless Feelin' By Bill Jackson, 9B "THE SYMPTOMS of a serious disease that doctors make no attempt to cure are quite noticeable during a certain season. People who have the disease go around in a daze, looking blankly at friends. Fortunately the disease is curable. It lasts only a few months. Yes. you've guessed. It's spring fever—very, very contagious. Now, listen. Don't get the idea that I am a person who has suffered the agonies of this disease. I speak not from firsthand experience but only from observation. But what an observer I am! Things I've seen and heard make me prefer to keep away from the germs of this disease. Such a sickness produces a bad state of mind. Then too, the victim very often finds it impossible to sleep, although he feels drowsy and tired most of the time. His thoughts almost always center on one person. I don't think I need to say more about this serious disease. As I said before, I'm just an innocent observer. I could mention some very bad cases, but I am afraid time won't permit. I give you fair warning: No one is immune. a kimono-covered, hair-uped average girlready-for-bed—to a glamorous, poised average, or better than average, girl-ready-to-goout. Her friends came over, and they left, at about 10:30 p. m. I'm still trying to find out where my sister went. It isn't t,hat she doesn't want to tell me. No, not that. She doesn't usually keep anything from me. I think the reason I don't get an answer to my question is the fact that she altogether and completely ignores me and everything that I say. But I'll keep on trying, and I'll tell you when I find out. Whenever you wonder why I have these telltale bulges under my eyes, just think of Suzy. Now please don't think that I don't like having a sister, because it really is swell to have a sister—especially if she has had two years of Latin and remembers a lot of it.

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THE I G O R R O T E So You Want to Be an Athlete

My Luve

Ey Ronald Lasky, 9A

(A Parody on "A Red Red Rose," by Robert Burns)

I BELIEVE I have found the best way in the world to build up one's body. No, I don't mean by drinking fruit juice or by taking prescribed exercises to the accompaniment of music. Because most everyone is interested in being strong and healthy, I shall give the directions for the method which is, in my opinion, the best. Get up at 7:30 each morning. After leisurely dressing, washing, and eating, dash out of the house like a madman. Then walk briskly to the nearest streetcar stop. If you should arrive just in time to see a car whiz past, don t waste your energy in cussing. You will need all that you can gather together later on. After you succeed in completing the first lap of your dangerous, hair-raising journey, you will have the honor of riding on that brand-new, modern, special de luxe, streamlined "04," commonly known as the "Dinky." You will later undoubtedly regret that you politely let the fairer sex pile into the car before you, although at the time, it seemed the only gentlemanly thing to do. But cast your regrets aside, because being one of the last persons to board the so-called speed demon plays a very important part in this building-up process. Once inside the car you will feel like a sardine caught in the "More-Sardines-to-theCan" movement. But soon after the take-off you will somehow be jostled loose and will find yourself gently bouncing from post to post, lap to lap, but never from seat to seat. This won't last forever. Before long, you will realize that something far more serious lies before you. (At this stage you must not let your mind dwell on the fact that you are a mere human being, for your task is one which not many of that species would dare to undertake. ) Your problem will be to reach the front of the car, and your path will be blocked by seemingly immovable masses. But don't be discouraged; you mustn't give up. Twist, squeeze, plunge, claw, and fight. If you follow these directions to the letter, you may reach the door alive. And don't be alarmed if, after stumbling out, you find you are a mile or two past your destination. Arriving at the wrong place also plays a very important part in this building-up process. I might add, and even go so far as to guarantee, that if the trip doesn't kill you first, it will make you a superman.

By Patsy Vernon, 9A 0, my luve's like a dead, dead hose That's sprung a leak too soon; 0, my luve's like an elegy That chants about the moon. Though thou art ugly, my lanky lass, Still thou dost make me sigh; But I must run from thee. I fear, And shun you till I die.

Hokku Verses The yellow streetcar Glided over the rails With a weaving motion. Leslie Grodsky, 9B The light gentle breeze Laughingly tossed the sea Into many whitecaps. Virginia Andrews. 9B The sleek red streetcar Ate up the winding track, A rocket ship gliding in space. Dick Donnelly, 9B A powerful dog Howled into the night air At the pale moon. Virginia Anclreivs, 9B

The Ballad of Noble King William By Andy Mills, 9A King William was a noble man, Who had fair daughters three. So beautiful were they, in truth, That men came miles to see. Many came, but none did stay; The king was wild with rage, Because he wanted sons-in-law For protection in old age. He sent the three to a foreign land In hopes that they would wed, But always they came home alone Till their father was well-nigh dead. The king then offered an enormous amount For marrying his young. Brave plumbers three received the dough— Oh, boy! Did they get stung!

Page Six


THE I G O R R O T E Songs My Mother Taught Me By Judy Spector. 9A I AM GOING to tell you a story—a story of war, oppression, and hate—a story of love, beaut}', and loyalty. I am, or rather was, a citizen of one of those countries which were invaded. No, it doesn't, matter which one it was. It's all the same now. I am a young peasant girl, fourteen years of age. I lived with my parents until about two years ago, and we were very happy. We, like many others of our kind, believed our little world intact and could not even imagine its falling to the invader. My story begins on Christmas Eve. Cheer and brightness were everywhere. Oh, how different our next Christmas was to be! I shudder to think of the difference. But this, our last joyous Christmas, is the one which I want to tell you about, now. Outside the snow fell, in gossamer-like flakes. Boys ran laughingly through the streets, good-naturedly pelting everyone that passed with a gigantic snowball. Here and there a snowman was under construction.

was littered with them. Mother came in to sooth us. She would not tell us what it was all about, but we soon guessed. Our little world had toppled! Our neighboring country was invading us, and there was nothing we could do to stop them. Oh! How helpless we felt in those dark hours! You know the rest—our country was soon occupied, and we were deprived of all our privileges. My father, along with many other men, was sent to a concentration camp. Then came long weeks of worry and waiting for a message that never came. But we knew that Father had been killed. The songs Mother had taught us served as the only bond that kept our homeland and us together. But this did not last. For, a few weeks after the occupation, the invader put a stop to even that. The last tie with our homeland was severed! No, I correct myself. It was only frayed, for these songs were sung at secret meetings. This went on for months and months. In the meantime we were applying for permission to leave the country. Finally it was received and we lost no time. Quickly, almost secretly we left. We were not even allowed to carry luggage out.

Our home was rilled with the gay spirit. The immense heavily decorated tree had been up for three days. We children capered and frolicked about, in anticipation of what we knew was in store for us. Then the opening chords of our national anthem came to our ears. The doors were flung open and there was the tree! We shyly angled in and stood speechless, gazing at it. Suddenly, with one accord, we came to life and began to dance around it. We danced energetically till we were ready to drop. Then we all quieted down and arranged ourselves at Papa's feet to hear our traditional Christmas story. It was a story we knew, word for word, but it never ceased to enthrall us. We listened quietly; and after it had come to an end, we opened our gifts. Later when it was time for our songs, we all assembled about the old piano and sang the songs Mother had taught us. They were beautiful old songs, and we loved them. After we had sung them all, we said "Good night" to our parents and trooped off to bed.

The train journey was rough and bare; and as time progressed, we became worried about Mother. She didn't seem to be standing the trip so well. And then she died. We felt empty without her. They had taken our father and now our mother. Would they leave us nothing? It seemed that we had very little to hope for. We were orphans, alone. The full meaning dawned upon us with all its tremendous force. We had no money to go farther on the train; so we were put out on the road.

For two months more our happy life continued. Then one night we were awakened by the sound of hurried cries and galloping hoofs. We children huddled together in our terror, the older ones trying to comfort the younger ones. We heard more cries—the night

We are not frightened. We know and are confident that the time will come when our homeland will be restored and some of the happiness of other days will return. But until that time we must struggle on and hope. God help us!

Now every day we struggle on to an obscure destination. We have only the songs that Mother taught us in those far-off days when our world was so bright. The shimmering threads of their melodies st,ill ring through our hearts, reminding us of happier days.

Page Seven


THE IGORROTE •Bi

Whew!

Break-Down

liy Carol Hyman, 10A

By Boseo Sinks (Pen Name of Richard M. Donnelly, 9BJ

Run, run, little skunk; \ou must love to see people jump. After all, what can you expect, When they get your full effect?

The Problem of Matching Ties and Shirts By Charles Telle, 9A TO MATCH ties and shirts is the hardest problem I have ever come upon. You who read this essay, may say I am wrong, because of those problems in algebra that we had to work last night. I hate to disagree with people; but when this question of matching ties and shirts comes up, I must speak my mind. I envy the person who, when waking up in the morning, can be sure that the first tie he picks off the rack will match his shirt to a tee. Now when I get up in the morning and pick out a shirt, the trouble starts. The first tie I choose does not go at all well with my shirt. I put it back on the rack and pick another. This usually suits me, and I walk out of my room wondering about what we'll have for breakfast. I forget completely about food when I hear my sister. "That tie, Charles!" "Do you like it?" "Do I like it? It's awful. You can't wear a tie and a shirt that fairly scream at each other." I go back into my room and take the tie off. I find another which I hope will pass unnoticed by the various members of the family. This time I get downstairs before I am attacked. Now it's my mother. And upstairs I go again. When I look through those on my rack very carefully, I realize that there just isn't one that matches; so I go to Father's rack. I pick a beauty and go downstairs where the first person I meet, of course, is its rightful owner. He looks at the tie and then at me and then back at the tie. "How many times have I told you not to wear my ties?" I ask him if it doesn't go well with my shirt. He agrees to that fact, but tells me to waste no time in taking off what belongs to him. Since I have had other such experiences, I do not argue. I ascend the stairs briskly and take the thing off. From now on I shall be wise. I shall go without a tie.

THE DRONING hum of whirling motors awoke him from his stupor and he shyly walked down the path from the depot to the airliner. He stood gazing in awe at the wonders and sights. Yes, you're right; it was his first trip. A lone worker, standing at the top of a ladder alongside the door, was busily shining the top of the transport which was due to leave in ten minutes. A short stepladder was set up to the door and the passengers began to board the plane. Cuthbert was among them. Being a very self-conscious boy of seventeen, he tried to hide his shyness by waving to his parents as he strode up the steps. But alas, he walked gaily up the workman's ladder (which was beside the small one) and still looking back, he collided with the washer and both went over the top. The workman landed first, with Cuthbert on him, the bucket over his head. As he jumped up, Cuthbert smacked his head on the wing; .then after a hard struggle he managed to remove the bucket. Our hero felt as if all eyes were on him; so he hurried into the plane trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Rushing down the aisle to take the last seat, he neatly tripped over a lady's umbrella and fell flat on his face. Resuming a dignified position, he noticed the hostess approaching him. He immediately began to shake all over and a burning feeling captured his stomach. Then it came, just what he feared; she spoke to him. "What is your name?" He gulped and tried to look away but finally stammered, "Cuthbert W. Twitch." Sure he had done something wrong, he shrank down in his seat. All she did was check his name on the passenger list and pass on. Throughout the flight he sat stiff and rigid, not daring to move or turn his head. At last the plane swooped low and landed. He made a wild dash for the door and, as sure as you're living, tripped over that same umbrella and fell through the open door before the steps were up. There was the sound of a siren, an ambulance drove up, and Cuthbert was driven away to the hospital. Later a verdict was passed — a nervous break-down. (There is a moral in this story, but if you can find it you're doing better than I am.)

Page Eight


THE IGORROTE ==*,

Cadging; or, Why Walk?

The Last Leaf

By Norman Grasilneck, 10A

(Modernized) By Max Putzel, 10A "I saw him once before as he passed by my door with that dame; the whole block shaked and the earth around 'em quaked, and now ag'in.

CINCE I don't have a father connected with the Public Service Company and my uncle doesn't drive his service car any more, in order to get a ride I have often resorted to the age-old practice of hitchhiking. Perhaps you are wondering why I say "age-old." (Perhaps not.) To explain why I use this word. I must go back to the origin of hitchhiking. Its origin was in Egypt; it is pictured in a hieroglyphic record, quite recently brought to light by a very famous archaeologist, Professor Johann Fritz Pervellienitzacopft. (Silent e, please.) It seems that a man was poling up the Nile when he saw another man. whose name was Cadgiouness, walking along the side of the river. Cadgiouness had just been in a chariot accident (the other fellow's fault) and had both his hands taped up, with only the thumb of his right hand unbandaged. The man felt sorry for Cadgiouness and offered him a ride. Cadgiouness accepted the offer with thanks. When Cadgiouness got well, his chariot was st,ill not fixed. In order to make people feel sorry for him and offer him rides, he again taped up his hands so that he would look as if he had been hurt. People did feel sorry for him, and he got many rides. But one day he ran out of tape. In order to get a ride, he folded his fingers into a fist and left his thumb sticking out; and people, thinking he had broken his hand, gave him lifts when he pointed his thumb in the direction he wanted to go. Soon many others were doing the same thing; and cadging, named after Cadgiouness, became a common thing. Consequently, a law was made against it. While it is probably not so large as that of many, I think my own cadging experience is quite wide. I have cadged from seven in the morning to ten at night. I have ridden in a '29 Terraplane with one fender half gone, one completely off, and the doors hanging on. (I was going to put something wit.ty in here about the doors hanging on, friction, and the like; but since I can't think of anything at the moment, I'll just say that the doors were hanging on.) I've ridden in a 1941 Cadillac —so new that, you could still see on its bod)' the reflections of the men taking it off the assembly line; a police car (unofficially) ; the step on a paper delivery truck. And I've stood on the running-board of a dilapidated fugitive from a junk yard, called a truck.

"They say that in his primem 'fore the crash in '29 cut 'em down, not a sweller guy was found as he made his hot-spot round through the town. "He's a damned old miser now (I'm not taken to swearin' though, but he is) ; that shack he calls his house, well, I dare say! Shut ma mouth!" "Couldn't guess." "Where he stole that dough is for anyone to know but you an' me; and for all the guys he's shot and killed outright on the spot." "Lord mercee!" "Why Mrs. Smith just said (you know she's sick in bed with the flu) that he spent three months in jail and they let 'im go on bail." "I never knew." "Did you see that face of his? Somethin' must a' gone amiss when he was born." holding tennis racket and balls in one hand, and holding on for the dear and the good (I guess) life with the other. I think that the best ride I ever had was on the back of a motorcycle with two other boys. And I've received countless rides from ordinary people in ordinary cars that took me where I wanted to go. All in all, I've had a heckofalot of fun hitchhiking. I've succeeded in getting somewhere I and back again) ; and, best of all, I've been saved having to spend a dime to ride that twisting, turning, twirler of the tracks; that rollicking roller of the rails; that swaying sizzler of the streets—the "Clayton 04"— something they should pay me a dime for. (This is to be discussed in a future essay.)

Page Nine


Fuszner, Till, Marcellcm, McGrath. Shoemake, Goldman Reintges.

Binowitz, Wolfe, >Babcock, Thomas, Becker. Briner, Lieber, Jarzabek

Halloran, Fitzgerald. Crowdus, Dierberg. Beavers, Dawidoff, Honigberg, Lea

Herpel, Montigne, Rollins, Selzer. Auer, Mills, Stead.

-'.'..,:: J-OoV ?f'£%"•'iWfe-

Lacy, Storch, Hart. Kratky, Hoffmann, Moore, Nobel, Mellor. Page Ten,

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Ryan, Baumer. Ramsey, Bell, Telle. Cohen, Kopman, Lettie. Engel.

f Vosburgii, Harbison. ProBe, Jamison, Smith. Sprague, Hyman, Schneider, Brereton, Horkits.

Brereton, Kieffer, Raines. Mellor, Kauffmann. Blocher, Agatstein, Hart. Keers, De Rennaux.

Moreau, Seasongood, Spector, Ramsey, Reinhardt. Spencer, Royse, Boye.

Vernon, Williams, Swann. White, Werngren. Fuszner, Hermann. Binder, DuBard, Heger. Page Eleven


Reinhardt, Mariam, Montigne, Heyman. Wenneker, Robertson. Wilson, Garland, Flora.

Wagner, Fitzgerald, Adams. Siegel, Weenick, Ray. Gillam.

Dickinson, Hinzpeter. Vaili Richter. Simms, Winchester, Neiswander.

Hoffman, Lasky, Crasilneck, Bond, Manners. Peltason, Zillman. Palan, Rosenberg, Cherdakoff.

Little, Jarzabek, Dwyeri, Lea. Till, Parnas, Brady, Seiler. Heller, Gusdorf. Page Tioelve


Fausek, Blocher, Lander, Mel] or. Knoche/JrinW Rupp, Montigne.

Eskilson, Spinsby, Jacobson, Smallwood, Bushman. Holsaple, Litzsinger. Handlan, Bayliss, Luedloff.

Ellis, Emert, Goldberg, Weber. Storch, Montigne, Goodbar. Goodbar, Moeller.

Lohr, Sparks, Dawidoff, Robertson, Quicksilver. Lustkandl, Zimmerman, Wittcoff, Sapin, Frey.

Zanzie, Neff, Dobrzanski, Heinsohn. Hartnett, Salland, Waters, Knarr.

Page Thirteen


Honigberg, Holtzman, Kilgen Hellmich, Kuhnmuench. Goldstein, Kerth, Goldberg, Selle.

Komer, Engel, Keath, Levey, Luten. Brown, Bradley, Davis. Cotlar, Feldman.

Rothbarth, Terry. Smith, Rosen, Patterson. Jennerjahn, Kolker, Hetlage, Gage, Jackman.

Lacy, McGrath, Marcellan. Lenz, Loesch, Saks, Ittner. Plaskett, Silvermintz, Kaltwasser.

DuBard, Beavers, Fitzgerald, Frink. Stout, Thomas. Putzel, Spector, Nelson.

Page Fourteen


Ruckman, Bliss, McKinley, Agatstein. Thomas, Turner, Murphey, Pattiz, Lehmann.

Gordon, Payne, Barrows, Messinger. Harbison, Becker, Greenspan, Smith.

McClay, Haas, Wipke, Pellet. Michelson, Gordon, Levy, Tabachnik.

Yelton, Sher, Klein, Rothman. Weber, Davis, Becker.

McCary, Nachman, Poecker. Ponfil, Spencer. Brill, Poslosky, Miller, Wagner. Page Fifteen


THE I G O R R O T E Streetcar Chatter

'Neath

By Shirley Daioicloff, 10A

(A Parody on "By th,-

''CARE, please" is the first thing you hear when boarding a streetcar. Your dime I or nickle, if you can get by with it) goes through the slot and clanks down into the little box. You then look for a suitable place to sit. After much consideration and swaying around, you choose a seat next to an elderly woman. And before long you become conscious of other people's troubles. Somewhere in back of you a woman is saying, "Oh, Mary, I don't know what we'll do. John has lost his position, and we just can't go on re ." Her words are lost; for a baby cries out, "Mama, baby wants lollipop!" From across the aisle you hear the reminiscences of an old man. Then the baseball talk of two boys sitting directly in front of you catches your attention. Finally, with determination, you unfold your paper and begin to read. It is not long before a very disturbing thought interrupts that reading. You look out the window. Yes, you have ridden a block too far! You jump up, ring the bell, and then practically fall out of the door. Trudging along an extra block makes you forget the streetcar chatter. You can think only of your stupidity.

A Dull Dinner By Louise Milton, 9B

1 is all the excitement? Why is 'WfHAT Mother putting all of the good silveron the table? My goodness! David is actually picking up his toys. Jean is talking over the telephone, as usual. What is happening?" Soon I was informed that we were having company to dinner. Mother told me to go to the store and get some bread. I was rushed through the door and went on my way. As I walked along Lake Forest I wondered just what company had that I didn't. How did they rate all the good silver and the best of food? Finally, I returned with the bread. Such excitement you have never seen. It seemed that the President himself must be coming for dinner, but no, it was only Mr. and Mrs. Upsnoot. I walked into the living room with the loaf of bread under my arm. There sat the guests talking with Mom and Dad. I broke into the conversation. "Hi there. Mother. They charged you two cents extra

By Jackie K,;.: : "Kid, here's a dime towavil Ui 1-.JUJ.J Go tell your Sis her Eoy 'Viond's wail in' her." The street was dark, and 'Si iMgJu was still: The sun had gone down ?l will. "Run, run, kid, run. "The night's young; so beat it, kid: Before you know it I'll be outdid." The moon shines high above the 'scrapers, Shining bright for all love-makers. "Rush, rush, kid, rush. "Be quiet; her old man might hear Unless he's gone out for a beer. Tell her if trouble comes I'll be hanging around with the usual bums. Quiet, quiet, kid, quiet. "Hey, what was that? Listen! Was that your sister's step? I can't be missin'; Do I hear her on the creaky stairs above? I'd better go and see myself if it's my love. Listen, listen, kid, listen. "Look! Here she comes and — Wow! If we're ever alone. I'll never know how. Her whole week's pay she must've spent; Gad! Those heels! If she falls I'll pick her Up — like a gent. "Scram, kid. and go far away. The things to her I've got to say Are for her tiny ears alone; Gee, in a few minutes we'll be far from home! So long, kid. Thanks!'' for this bread." Mom looked startled. "What's the matter? Have I said something wrong?" I stammered. Mom told me to go upstairs and get washed up. Then the dinner bell rang and we filed into the dining room. When the soup was served I started telling Dad about that awful John Lamb. When my sister kicked my shin and I caught Mother's horrified glance, I dropped that subject. (I was later informed that he was Mrs. Upsnoot's nephew.) Right then and there I decided I'd better not say anything more. So I kept still during the remainder of the dinner. It was a very dull dinner, I must say.

Page Sixteen


THE IGORROTE Ambition

i v!'*,c Decision! "'•'.• ' '•~f:..r:ryn Gage, 9A

By Alva DobrsannTei, 9A

.,*r*>=; ?.i'.-v,ugh the woods one day, -i<j saw a ''fii'iia1! fair, In a state or" .',,>i.,pU.te distress, As she •"••. :..'.'• - ' • tring her hair.

I want to be a star someday In movieland across the way. I want to be an actress great: I surely hope that is my fate.

If he had k n o w n v;;iat was in her mind, He wouldn't \.s--,\" been so sad; For she was trying to decide between Him and another lad.

I want to act with Alice Faye In movieland across the way, And then have Ty to be my date; I surely hope that is my fate.

Which would it be? She couldn't choose, And she didn't know what to do; So being a very fickle girl, She decided to like the two.

I'll play in thrillers if I may, In movieland across the way, And be in love with Franchot Tone; Then steal him from Simone Simon.

Oh Bury Me Not in the Ocean Blue (A Parody on "Oh Bury Me Nor on rhe Lone Prairie")

By Joan Lettie, 9A "Oh bury me not in the ocean blue, Because I will haunt you if you do." These words came from Trigger Malone, As there he lay on the floor alone. "Oh bury me not in the ocean blue, Where the sawfishes will saw me through and through, Where the cold waters roll and the mermaids play, And life is forever dull and gray."

The End of a School Year (A Parody on "Curfew," by Henry Wadsworrh Longfellow)

By Paul Peltason, 9A Musically, rhythmically, Sounding its dong, The Wydown chimes Are beginning to gong. Put on your coats, And take up your books; Say your good-by's And take your last looks. Loud grow the voices, And with laughter we cry: "'School days are over! Farewell — Wydown High." No light in the school room, No sound in the hall. Quiet and peace Reign over all.

Admirers I will have someday In movieland across the way, And when I dance with Fred Astaire They'll say, "Now that's a perfect pair." In thrillers when the wolves do bay In movieland across the way, Nice Randie Scott will maybe come And call me beautiful but dumb. I want to mainly get good pay In movieland across the way, And be as lovely as can be So Bing will fall in love with me.

An Evening with Music Lovers By Richard Hetlage, 9A LJAVE you ever attended a symphony concert? Well, don't, especially if it is necessary for you to sit among music lovers. The first thing that usually comes upon you is the urge to sneeze. It cannot be warded off, and the result is that you feel quite out of place. Every one seems to stare at you unmercifully. Then when it gets hot, you decide to remove your coat. (If you succeed in doing this, you're a better man than I! ) After finally getting comfortably settled, you think it might be a good idea to show a little interest in the music. This leads only to disaster, for when the orchestra pauses between movements, you start clapping vigorously. Too late you realize your mistake! Again the cruel stares. You crouch down in your seat and pray for music — anything to relieve the tension of the awful silence. At last the program comes to an end. You rush out and breathe deeply. You have the satisfaction (small enough compensation, indeed !) of knowing that the hardest ordeal of your life has just passed.

Page Seventeen


THE I G O R R - . North Wind

l.dmpede at Five

By Mary Anne Bond, 9A

Sy Dick Donnelly. 9B

The wind comes out of the north With a whistle and a roar: It shakes the brittle trees And chills us to the core. Its raging body winding Through ragged crags and glen: Its sharpness like a thunderbolt Strikes to the very heart of men. The wrinkled and the weak are first To feel this stinging blow; The animals in the forest heed it— The gentle fawn and doe.

Button! Button! Who Has the Button? Sy Sally Barroivs, 10A "J'LL WEAR this dress. . . . Oh! A button's off!" First I turn the house upsidedown. I look in the sewing basket, but it is not there. Next I try that old dress Aunt Mary left here several years ago. I think the buttons are somewhat alike. Ah! I've found it! The button is sewed on: but alas, it is too large. Let me see. Maybe a neighbor would have one. Heaven help the neighbor now! Her house is ransacked. Every dresser drawer is searched, every closet emptied. The sewingroom will never get back to normal again. I actually find one. . . . No, it has six holes instead of three. All the rest are too small, too big, too flat, too round, too dark, or too light.

"Ouch!" "Get off my fingers." "Let go!" ' "I've got it." "Quit pulling." Yep, it's the same old story. It happens at about five o'clock every day when the paper arrives. Dad wants the sport section, Mother grabs for the front page, and I lunge for the funnies. But Dad always wins and tries to read the whole thing at, once. While he reads the funnies, I creep up and try to sneak away with the sports section. As usual, that's the part he wants to read next. Mother puts in a plea for the women's section, but Dad even gives it the once-over before he gives it up. Finally, at about five-thirty I begin to get the paper in snatches. I am learning my lesson and find it advisable never to enter the house until six, for fear I'll be caught in the stampede at five.

Down to Lunch (A Parody on "How the Waters Came Down at Lodore," by Robert Southey)

By Virginia Hanrtlan, 10A "How do the students Come down to lunch?'' From the assembly they come In a group or a bunch: They race Or they run, Whatever their mood.— For anything that slightly Resembles food.

Girl Alone (A Parody on "Lone Dog," by Irene Rutherford McLeod)

Well, I might try the button shop. Now I'll surely find it. Yes, she is sure she has just the button I want, and so it is produced. "Fine, fine," I say, and go home to sew on the button. Of course I might have known it would be too small! But, I am not discouraged. No! Not at all! There is still the dressmaker that made the dress. But too bad! She left the city a month ago.

By Eileen Sells, 9A I'm a lean girl, a mean girl, a wild girl and lone; I'm a homely girl, a lonely girl, runninground alone; I'm a bad girl, a mad girl, trying not to weep; I love to sit and play a tune, and never go to sleep.

At last I come to the conclusion that the button is the rarest thing in the world—even rarer than the jewels in the crown of the Prince of India; and if I had such a button, it certainly wouldn't be the thing to put on a last year's dress.

I'll never be a fat girl, crying for some sweets, A wealthy girl, a health}' girl, one you'd want to meet; Not for me the bedside, the always-filled plate. But shut heart, and sharp tone, and nag and cuff, and hate.

Page Eighteen


iGORROTE Poo. Richard Speaks Again

,. Little white lies soon turn black. Mary Kathryn Niedringhaus, 9B

People's changing.

minds are like styles, always Lois Dierterg, 9A

Forget your own troubles by relieving others of theirs. Jack Harbison, 9A — Be a good loser if you want to gain respect. > Gerald Weenick, 9A Take advantage of advantages. Carolyn Keers, 9A The cloud that thunders much rains little. Dick Donnelly, 9B Anything too sweet is sickening. George Lyon Fonyo, 9B Little shoes —big corns. Victor Ham

>

9B

One bad name spoils another. Jane Dazey, 9B Speeding less may save a mess. Leslie Groclsky, 9B 7 Talk for a reason, not just to chatter. Bill y Kaplan, 9B 11 , , , The more you talk the less you hear. Alan Mariam, 9A „ , . , . . Don t wish for it; go and get it. Dorothy DuBard, 9A , , Jvnow what you are doing, and do only what you know. Neal Brown, 9A . . . . Keep your head in times of stress. Bunny Jack-man, 9A Study to learn, not just to earn credit. Billy Kaplan, 9B -j-,-.

.

,

-,

.

Big head, small heart.

Sow your tomorrow.

may

rain

A bath a day keeps the germs away. Alan Mariam, 9A Be nice to the little fellow; someday he'll be the same to you. ' Jack Kaiser, 9B A glamour girl is too rich a diet for the average man's pocketbook. " Victor Ham, 9B S j eep at nignt> not in scnOol.

Billy Kaplan, 9B TJO

now

__ ,jone tomorrow. Jane Dazey. 9B

Uge a ladder, not a chair: there will be less pain to bear. Alan #orioTOj 9A

The good scholar is not made in one lesson. ' Florence Zanzie. 9A . One good friend is better than two bad ° "

HaUie Flora^ 9A

Thinking yields more benefit than dreaming. ' minor mnaer< 9A If you say you're honest, be honest. . . . • - - ^^ xrereton 9A Don't delay; do today. ' • __ L

\AV^JltlT

.

*J.V/

tV/U-U V •

Learn to swim before

If you must have the memory of an elephant, don't take the shape. Carolyn Keers. 9A

it

Because you started the argument, don't feel that you must finish it. Curtis Ittner, 9A

Judy Specto,; 9A

Speak to be heard or say nothing. Jane Brereton, 9A

today;

Joan Yelton, 9A

JL-"_>11

Flowers without water don t grow. Prank Fuszner, 9A

_ ... . grain

Carolyn Keers. 9A

?ou t r j divinS' Curtis Ittner,

A tennis ball in the hand is worth two on |he roof. Alan Mariam, 9A If you wish to criticize, criticize yourself. Jane Brereton, 9A

Page Nineteen


THE IG^ r ":OTE Me, a Salesman? By Bill Barlow, 9B \WH1LE my folks always said I had the makin's of a salesman, I've come to believe it's not the thing for me. Everyone encouraged me, and I watched the ad column that old Will Collins started in our little paper. A couple months ago I came across something that interested me. I answered that particular ad, and sure 'nough in about a week I got an application blank in the mail, and the letter with it said to fill it out and bring it to the city in a few days. I guess they were getting a lot of other fellas lined up, too. From that time on, I can tell you, I had the jitters until my ears wobbled. I had a little money saved up and I made up my mind to keep my appointment. So I went down to the bus depot and got myself a round trip ticket. The next morning I was all set to leave. I had my ticket packed carefully in a great cardboard hatbox along with the five sandwiches Mom had fixed for me. Of course, these things didn't fill all the space in the box; so I stuffed wadded newspaper around my lunch. I started out with my Sunday suit, my straw hat, my big hatbox, and an awful case of jitters. You understand, I wasn't crazy about all this. The more I thought about it the worse I felt. I almost missed the bus thinking about it. I thought about it too much. I finally boarded the bus, and it wasn't long before we got to the city. I slept most of the way, but I woke up as soon as all the bumping stopped. I was scared and couldn't understand how I could have slept. I rose from my seat immediately and went to the door, then dashed back again for my sandwiches and my ticket. I dug in the box for the office address. I walked and walked until I found myself standing before a toweling brick building. A number in the doorway matched the one on my paper. I approached cautiously. I wandered into the building and studied a long list of names on the wall. Some of them I couldn't pronounce. Before I knew what had happened, I had been pushed into a cage of some sort, and I found myself getting sick at my stomach. A man was questioning me. "What floor, please? What floor?" I managed to gasp, "Mil—Miller—Miller and Company." The cage came to a stop. My stomach continued. As I staggered out the man said, "Down the hall to the left, number 762."

After getting my bearings, T.>|j follow his directions. ''762, If-" I found that number anr1 door. It opened. M tongue. Oh, I had t j. -wav^-ecrover to where a womci;\.>: -r seated. She immediately questioned me. "Do you wish to see Mr. Miller about the job offered?" "Yes—yes," I stammered. I guess I wasn't very polite. "Take a seat over there, please. In just a few minutes Mr. Miller will see you." I sat. My thoughts swam about in my head. I wondered if I should have paid the man who brought me up here in the cage. I didn't like to think—it made me miserable. I tried to remodel the dome of my hat. I yawned. Presently, I was in a state of slumber. I had a nasty dream. All of a sudden I heard a loud buzzing sound. Startled, I sat stiffly in my chair, my heart beating at a tremendous rate. I gazed about without turning my head. Was it sabotage? (I'd learned that word in high school.) No, just a signal of some sort I guessed. Then I remembered my hatbox. I opened it and nibbled at a sandwich. I couldn't eat. I aimed a wadded newspaper at a wastebasket across the room. It fell in. The woman at the desk stared. I gathered the box together, sandwiches and all, and carried it to the wastebasket, dropped it in, and stamped on it to make sure it wouldn't pop out again. I returned to my seat. My ticket! I rushed back to the basket and threw paper in every direction. At last I found it. Wbile I picked up the mess on the floor, the woman at the desk cleared her throat a number of times. Again I returned to my seat and sat twiddling my thumbs. I heard the buzzing sound and then the lady said, "You may go in now," and pointed to a door. I gasped, then boldly walked into the manager's office. Wow! The room was full up with cigar smoke. I coughed until I just about wept. Through the fog I saw a little squatty man seated behind a monstrous desk. My time had come! Little, bald-headed Mr. Miller sat staring at me. He inquired in a gruff voice, "Your application blank, please?" I swept it out of a hidden pocket in my Sunday suit. He glanced at it. then placed it in a big drawer. He said, "Have a chair, young man. Your name is Ronsley?" "Yes, sir. I'd like to be a salesman. (That wasn't the truth at all. I just wanted to make

Page Twenty


THE A Railroad "I itusn

x

A Dotard's Lament Sy Jeanne Greenspan. 9A

,; Evelyn Zimmerman, 10A time I ride a train, e a dizzy dame. T

^e station nearing, t a-cheering.

For at last ni/ uip is ended â&#x20AC;&#x201D; No more money to be spended.

There was an old man from Jamaica, Who always complained of an acha; One morning when he awoke He sighed as he spoke, "I'm afraid I can no longer taka."

A Knot?

The Fly (A Parody on "The Dust," by Nathalia Crane) By Paula Faye TabacJiiiik, 9 A Buzzing hither, buzzing yon. The little fly flew, and soon it was gone. Over a bush and under a fence. The liltle fly flew to a forest dense. A huge beast's roar and an ugly bird's caw Soon sent little fly flying home to his maw. a good impression.) "So you want to be a salesman? Have you had any training with ores? Just a little, eh?'' He paused and looked at me. "You seem to be a nice young fellow. I tell you, right now with the young men going to the army, I have an awful time keeping our positions filled: and you're the first boy to apply for this job." I was fascinated by his speech, but not impressed. I didn't want to be a salesman. I felt that more than ever. "If you'll really stick to the job, I'll send you to our training school for six weeks." "No, no, no," I said to myself. The words were swimming around in my head. I nearly went crazy with the thought that I'd chosen for my life work something that I hated now more than anything else in the world. I rose slightly in my chair, the little man staring at me. At this point I stood up and dashed madly for the door. I guess I must have pushed over the chair, for I heard a loud bang when something hit the floor. As I ran past the woman at the desk, I waved good-by. Boy, did I feel good! I raced out into the hall. I guess the man with his cage had gone long ago. I practically slid over some steps and fell down the last flight. But nothing could hurt me now. I had escaped. Later I caught the bus for home. I couldn't sleep this time; I was too happy. When I got home, Mom wasn't mad at me. She admired me for tryin' it out. I was back home and my own boss again. Me, a salesman? No, not me!

By Bill Kaplan, 9B

w1

(HAT'S the matter? Do you mean to tell me, after looking at my raw and bleeding hands, my exasperated expression, my disheveled hair, my sweating face, my tattered clothes, my nervous condition, that you can't tell me what it is? You'll hazard a guess? All right. No, it wasn't a fight with a girl. Another guess? What? Yes, yes, that's it. I knew you could tell. Yes, it is a knot in my shoelace.

The Rime of the Modern Jitterbug (A Parody on "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," by Samuel Taylor Coleridge) By Norma Heinsohn. 9A It is a modern Jitterbug, And he danceth all the night With hot, hot music and dancing feet; He stops not till the light. The dance-hall doors are opened wide, And he is always there; The floor is slick; his heels go click; His hop is that of a hare. He holds her with his jittery hand; The audience stands still And watches like a three years' child; The Jitterbug has his will. The audience stands on an edge; They can but see the rugs; Thus they miss the dancing feet Of these two Jitterbugs. The two were cheered; the floor was cleared; Slowly the two did drop Below the crowd, below the noise. Below the dance-floor top. The curtain then came up again, And from behind they came, And he did shine, and she felt fine, For they had won again.

Page Twenty-One


-

THF

-1 C

"Dinner at Eight"

Life ar

By Marvin Goldman, 9B 1 WAS awaiting something that it seemed would never come. If only I could get my mind off my stomach! My lunch had been a light one. It was now seven o'clock, an hour past my usual dinner time. What could I do to forget the cavity in my stomach? Play cards? I tried this but to no avail. Read a magazine? This did no good. At home. I could have gone to the icebox and eaten something to drive off the emptiness. That was not the solution here, for I was in the house of one of Dad's friends, and I had been warned to be on my best behavior. Through subtle hints, I found their dinner time to be eight o'clock. When I learned this I must have turned red in the face, because someone asked, "Are you sick?" "Of course not" was my mechanical answer. Seven o'clock finally came, but it seemed that the hand of the clock would never reach eight. I turned on the radio. Jokes that might have been funny were dull and uninteresting. A few hours later, minutes really, the master of the house came in: but he made no mention of dinner. When dinner was announced, of course I did not run to the table nor even walk fast. After everyone else was seated, I sat down. I was again asked, "Do you feel sick?'' With a forced smile on my face I answered, "No, T feel fine." Everyone seemed to be watching me. Which spoon should I start with, this or this? Of course, I knew which spoon to use. You start at the end and work toward the plate. Or do you start at the plate and work the other way? I could decide that later. Boy! I could just see a big steak or an enormous piece of chicken on my plate. These thoughts, however, were washed away by a bowl of soup. Oh, it was good soup, but it seemed to be keeping me away from the meat which I thought would be the next course. Nevertheless, the salad placed before me did not verify this idea. At last the smell of the much-wanted meat woke me out of my semi-conscious state, and a serving of roast beef was placed before me. I could have picked it up with my hands and eaten it cave-man style, but I refrained from doing so. After having taken a second helping, I was about to accept a third when 1 remembered "Do not eat more than two helpings!"

By

10A 1

ONE day w ,«.iing by i. rf river, watching and foam, flowing on its way, I begc. ink how much it is like one's life. They both start way back yonder and continue, on and on. They go on their way until they come to their end—the river, merging into the ocean, life into the great unknown. Although both may continue on forever, we never know what happens. Our lives don't run smoothly for any length of time. One day we are happy— everything is wonderful; the next—nothing is right. Isn't Old Man River just the same? Right here next to the bank it is quiet and calm, like a baby who has just finished his milk; and there in the middle it is swirling, turning like a madman. Did you ever stop to think how much the river picks up on its long journey? From each stream it gathers new strength, more wealth. And then it becomes larger and spreads out over the land. In the schools our lives pick up many things; the friends we have help us learn and teach us much. As we go on, our lives begin to broaden: and we pick up more all the time. As I wandered home with all these beautiful thoughts running through my mind, I saw the sun was sinking in the west. It left a lovely picture—the sky above, like an artist's paintbox, and the river below, with its darkblue waters.

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Wash (With Apologies to Allan Cunningham)

By Laivrence Stout, 10A A wet sheet and a Monday morn, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sheet, And bends the clothes-pole mast: And bends the clothes-pole mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good wash flies, and leaves Old Annie on the lee. Did I care for more meat? "No, thank you. I am quite full." "Liar!" I said to myself. "I'll go home and raid the icebox" was the thought that ran through my mind. What I said to my hostess was "If you will excuse me, I must go home and do my home work. I've had a fine dinner."

Page Twenty-Two


oT E A Pit,

Armchairs

By -"->•/, 9B IN A SvRTAIJN 1 at the Wydown School are some elightful and comfortable armchairs, with all desirable things, there are no, enough of them. This may seem a dry subject to write on: however, there is real drama behind it all. There are approximately ten armchairs and about thirty people. Now you have it in a nutshell—thirty people wanting ten armchairs. Every afternoon when the bell announcing the seventh period rings, there is a mad dash for English class. I repeat — thirty people and ten armchairs. The students race for that room not caring a hoot for the lives of their classmates who are in their way. Anyone hindering progress is rudely thrust aside. You may look at it in this way. It is n striving of the human race for the thingdearest lo their hearts, a comfortable armchair. So I make this public appeal: "Please! More armchairs!"

A Would-Be Ballad By Kenneth Hartnett, 9B I've sat here for an hour or more, With downcast eyes upon the floor. Trying to think up some small verse; Each time I try I just get worse. I'll bet those guys like Burns and Poe, Half of the time were filled with woe. Trying to think up words to rhyme; Say — I'll dig ditches any time! Three stanzas — that is what you said: I wish you had said two instead; I know that this is rotten style, But I hope it pleases you, Miss Lyle,

True Confession

By June Rosen, 10A ''KytY, THAT was a marvelous picture!" I remark, upon leaving the theater. (That's what you say, whether you believe it or not.) We walk slowly toward the car. "Why, what's this? A ticket!" That comes The First Smoke with an agonized moan from my grandor mother. "Now, what can that be for?" Conflagration en Masse "Maybe," I put in helpfully, "it's because By Robert 'Winchester, 10A we parked between two 'No Parking' signs." INURING my younger days I lived on my I receive a scorching look and so am uncle's farm in the East. As I was not promptly and completely squelched. Since the police station is just around the yet old enough to work in the fields, there were two or three hours in the afternoon corner, we decide to drop in for "settlement." when I had nothing to do. Sometimes I'd go (That's what they call it now.) With a jerk and a stripping of gears, we fishing, but most of the time I just roamed around with my brother Bill. It was during start. Creeping along at one-tenth of a mile one of these afternoons that we had our first an hour, we reach the street on which that beautiful red building, with the bars, is desire to smoke. Because we had nothing else, we went out located. After we go down a flight of stairs, we enter into the cornfield and got some corn silks. We decided to use the hayloft of the barn as a room and meet up with a "Man Wanted" our smoking room. We climbed into the loft poster. This is to scare all hardened criminals and lit up. When the silks had burned down into confessing. Then begins the argument. My grandto nothing, we tossed them aside and turned over in the hay to sleep off the aftereffects. mother simply cannot understand how this Unknown to us, while we were sleeping, town expects to have any business if it sticks the hay caught on fire and started blazing "No Parking" signs all over. The argument merrily. We soon woke up and got out of goes on and on. You really can't call it an the barn—plenty fast. The building was in argument, though; for my grandmother is flames when the volunteer fire department doing all the talking (except for an occasional arrived. Our tabby cat's fur caught on fire.. "But. lady," put in by the police sergeant). Scorching, he ran out of the barn and into This continues for so long that the police the chicken house, which started burning— sergeant finally loses his good-neighborpolicy expression and charges us an addidue to the feline torch. Both barn and chicken house burned to the tional two dollars, after separating my dear ground. Net result: two experienced boys, grandmother from her four dollars. Arid baked chicken for a month, and a cat with with grace (but with a certain definiteness) we are kicked out! eight lives to go. Page Twenty-Three


THE IGORROTE ••y. -feil- "';i.

*.;C PATRONS Mr. and Mrs. M. Blocher Bowling Esquire

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Mr. and Mrs. Erik C. Boye Mr. and Mrs. Emil E. Brill. Byron Cade Flowers Caspar's Radio and Appliance Company Clayton Camera Shop Columbus and Grueninger, Inc. Mr. and Mrs. Calvin R. Davis Denny's Darlings Mrs. I. F. Fausek Mr. and Mrs. Sam Feldman Mrs. Joseph A. Fonyo For Everiz Yours A Friend Mr. and Mrs. F. W. Gage Glaser Drug Company Hirthy Bars Mr. and Mrs. R. A. Kaltwasser Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Kieffer Dr. and Mrs. Sam B. Lappeman Leggittslatures Lorbreakers Lucerna Dr. and Mrs. Drew Luten Lylettes Mr. and Mrs. Tom E. McCary, Jr. Mrs. Martz's English-Latins Mr. and Mrs. Paul F. Mellor Midland Importing Company Miller's Microbes Mr. and Mrs. Andrew S. Mills Nineteen Lemen Drops and One Big Squeeze Paramount Cleaners Mr. and Mrs. S. Pattiz G. C. Reed, Druggist Mr. and Mrs. William Saks Oliver Selle Harold W. Sparks Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence E. Stout Wm. A. Straub and Company Mr. and Mrs. S. O. Taylor Mr. and Mrs. Baker Terry The Egg Beaters The Parkmoor The Principal's Pets Mr. and Mrs. H. Gifford Till Mr. and Mrs. Hubert L. Williams Mr. and Mrs. A. Wittcoff Mr. and Mrs. L. Boyd Yelton

Page Twenty-Four

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1940- Igorrote Vol 4 No 2  

This is the 1940 Igorrote Volume 4 Number 2 magazine for Wydown Middle School in Clayton, Missouri.

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