THE O. H. S. TIGER, THURSDAY, MARCH 15, 1923. Page 3 LITERARY OLD KING TUT-ANK-HA-MEN Old King Tut tile lived in a hut, . His knives and forks were made of solid gold. [And he used to pass the Nile |By drinking Becker's Cider, so I'm told. When it came his turn to die [They dried him dry as dry, And in his tomb they placed some things to eat. There was Goddard's greenless greens [ And Pierce's pork and beans Also a case or two of shredded wheat. Here's something else that's true [ They left him some gum to chew And candy, so the angels he could treat. Then they left a golden horn Also some popping corn And tor sleeping, ihey left him a lin¬en sheet. Yes, the fiixed him up quite fine I With a fish pole, hook, and line I. And some more things that they though he needed most. KTh en they carefully sealed the floor I And tightly closed the door, And sent his soul to heaven, parcel post. —Oscar Deming. —O-H-S— CHERRY TREES IN SPRING I See! l The cherry tree I Lifts her arms up in the air, E Arms all smooth and round and bare; | Lifts them up to touch the light. K How they quiver with delight I When the sun casts threads of gold t For her empty arms to hold. —Madeline Reeder. —O-H-S— THE CLOCK Tick, tick, Tick, tick. The silver clock counts on, But for her the hours are gone. The room is crowded with the thick, Soft shadows of past hours, , When time unfolded life like flowers Before her eager eyes. I Tick, tick, That is the way the time flies, I It comes and goes all in a day; I The clock that ushered in the hours I Has ticked them all away, | Tick, tick, Tick, tick. —Madeline Reeder. —O-H-S— A DAY'S GRIEF As the gray, haggard, sunless dawn I crept grudgingly up from behind the I craggy pinnacles, a huge bear stirred | wearily, slightly, in the dead autumn E leaves, never shifting her gaze from i the object on which it rested. The I' object—her—cub—in a frantic frenzy I of fear during its mother's absence I had fallen over a cliff, breaking its k neck. The mother bear with regret I and invincible remorse gripping her L heart, sent forth impassioned groans, f as if begging her child for forgive¬ness. The imposing, melancholy crags stood loftly and high above the scene of sorrow, deigning not a glance of comfort. Great, lonely stretches of dust-befogged, windless, gloomy, with all the waggery of yes¬terday left behind. Still the day dragged its way across the earth's , face; still this humble beast's glazed- eyed, ceaseless, dry stare at her mournfully heedless offspring brought no response. An enormouse eagle, gyrating patiently abov, waited a chance to satisfy his lupine hunger. Finally evening trudged gloomily af¬ter the receding day, with melancholy shadows creeping dismally into the crevices among the rocks. Slowly, gradually, as the day waned, the faithful watcher crumpled perceptibly. Black shadows stretched here and there, like gaunt ghosts in the pale, weak moonlight. As the moon trail¬ed along in the wake of the sun's path, the bulk of the watching beast gradually took on the attitude of the otlur limp figure, till all signs of life were gone. A huge shadow floated over the I crags, parsed above the lifeless fi¬gures, then, suddenly filling out, be¬came a living reality—the eagle of the early afternoon. —Ollie Nix. A SMALL BOY'S ESSAY ON SOAP Soap is a substance that can be used for numerous occasions and dif¬ferent purposes. I wuz readin' that the eskemo's regard it as an article of diat. That is, they use it for des-sert. My pa uses it to plug rat holes and to put on his face when he shaves. About the best use fer soap that I've discovered is to apply it as a luber- cator for street car tracks on halo- we'en, and tu dicorate winders with. I've even herd thet some people use it tu wash with. Their usta be a boy that lived ac- cross from the butcher shop that even washed his neck and ears with it. Mind ja!! Us fellers never had much tu do with him though. He was to big a sissy. My ma hez tried to make me use soap. She sez sun light never shines on my neck except on sundays when she scrubs me. What gets me though is what rite hez our ma's got to make us fellers to purfume ourselves with some pink culured soap? You know the kind. Wha rite have they got to make us wash our nex if we don't want to? Aint they our own nex? Can't we do what we want with our own nex? If we painted them red, white or yello why should our ma's object. Answer me that. I know soap is a boom to humanity fer some purposes as mentioned before but I beleave it should be kep in its place, an not on our nex if we don't want it their. —Oscar Deming. —O-H-S— MYSTERIES OF NIGHT The wild, barbarous strains of the tom-toms and oboes sounded with a clash above the murmurings in the room of the Cafe Maure. The Arabs, draped in their showy, striped and colored haiks, looked up interestedly through the mist of kief smoke as another daughter of the Culed Nail tribe began her wild dance. One of the onlookers leaned a little forward and removed the kief-pipe from his lips. From under his yellow turban a small, dark pair of eyes gleamed maliciously as they caught sight of the glittering array of shiny coins which dangled temptingly from the gaudy person of the dancer. Whirling and swaying, her wooly hair covered with grease and her face and long finders tinted with henna, the girl moved slowly toward one of the Arabs, where she held her hand out expectantly for the silver coin, which was dropped into it. As the audience turned back to their coffee and kief, the nomad with the yellow turban slipped out of the door into the cooling atmosphere. An hour or two later, by the light of the great rising moon, a moving silhouette was plainly discernible as it climbed over a mud-plastered wall onto a balcony. There the figure stopped for a second and looked care¬fully around him. On his head he wore a yellow turban, and falling in graceful folds from his shoulders was thrown a pale blue haik. His dark, glowing eyes shone like coals as he looked sharply about him; and then turning with a noiseless tread of his bare feet, he disappeared into a dark chamber that opened from the bal¬cony. From the depths of the room, the deep breathing of a sleeping person broke the intense stillness of the night. Moving stealthily to the couch from which the breathing emerged, the nomad bent slightly over the body of the slumbering individual and hesitated a second. Then with a slight movement of the wrist, he drew an object from under his sleeve, the shining blade of which, caught and reflected the moon-light as it filtered through the open doorway. The object was poised in mid-air for an instant, and then—a swift, clean stroke of the cold, shining steel, and it was replaced under the loose folds of his long sleeve. The Arab drew a deep breath—all was safe now for his work for the time being. His brilliant eyes searched the room, they alighted on the objects he had come for. Taking a few steps away from the couch, he picked up the garments of the decapitated danc¬er. A creepy smile curved the thick lips of the man as he tore the glitter¬ing coins from the dress and snatch¬ed some dangling ear-rings and a few other trinkets. Quickly then he dis¬appeared over the mud-wall as quick¬ly and silently as he had come. A few moments later the figure of a man melted into the yellow sands of the desert, as a great, red moon peeped over the feathery tops of a clump of date trees. —Lyle Chase '24 THE THEFT The fine mist-like rain fell cease- .essly through the intense blackness Df the night. All was silent with the quietness of evening, except for the .nonotony of the falling rain. Through the mist a forlorn light gleamed feebly for a small distance, then lost itself in the heavy darkness. It came from the dismal, neglected cottage by the stone-pits, known as the dwelling- place of Old Silas Marner. Suddenly the quietness was broken by the splashing of footsteps, and the dark figure of a man appeared in the dim light from the window. He walk¬ed carefully along the slippery path that bordered the stone-pits, to the door of the cottage and entered hesi¬tatingly. There was no one there; but a bright fireplace beckoned tempt¬ingly to the visitor. Suddenly his small eyes lighted up with a greedy look. Silas Marner was gone! Per¬haps he had fallen in the waters of the stone-pits! He was known as a miser and must have money hidden somewhere. He searched the room and finally his eyes rested on a loose brick in the floor, covered with sand. His eager fingers quickly brushed away the sand and lifting the brick he thrust his hand into the dark hole. His search had been rewarded and he drew out two sacks of glittering gold. Hastily replacing the brick, he cau¬tiously covered it with sand, then picking up the heavy, leather bags, he started for the door. Hastening his foot-steps he stepped into the darkness beyond. A slide—a stifled scream—a heavy splash and the thick, murky waters closed eagerly over their victim. Dunstan Cass had come to judgment. —Lyle Chase. ON ABOLISHING CASTOR OIL Now that I have reached the age in life when I am allowed to give ad¬vice and expres my mind freely, I shall give vent to my feelings on that I consider the blackest spot in a child's life. I spent my first few years on earth as any normal, healthy child would do, swimming, playing games, _ and eating, etc. I am almost convinced that my first ten years on earth would have been heaven; but for one thing. This thing was the one black cloud that covered my sun, the one thorn on my rose of pleasure, the one fear in a mind that should know no fear—this was castor oil. Any punishment was easy, any job not too hard; but to make a sweet, pure, innocent child swallow a dose of slimy, ill smelling castor oil (by the simple process of holding his nose), was nothing short of murder. It inspired the child to lie, cheat, and show a display of temper, in fact do anything to avoid the sickly odor. More than once I have stood like a little angel asd told lie after lie to avoid taking castor oil. Other sweet children have done the same thing. The fact that they lied is proof enough that they were at their rope's end. Constant lying to their mothers be¬comes a habit. Lying leads to steal¬ing and stealing, to jail. People won¬der why so many jails are filled to¬day. I have given the answer. So, fellow students, think this over care¬fully and when we reach the age to vote, vote for the abolishment of the terror of your childhood-days and nights, castor oil. —Oscar Deming. ON BEING CALLED TO THE OFFICE It was a day! You may call vaca¬tion days wonderful, and holidays thrilling, but a school day is so filled with anguish that no loving appella¬tion could be applied to it. So you may know that the day, of which I am speaking was a school day. The second bell had long since ceased its divine racket. The teacher had finished calling the roll, and a pleasant hum of students' voices, dis¬cussing things more important than English rose to the ceiling and seeped into the hall. I was vainly trying to prepare my lesson in book-keeping, in order that I might not incur an¬other teacher's wrath, when the door was opened by a bored looking in¬dividual, who paid no attention to the stares of the class, but ambled leis¬urely to the desk and announced *$?'"%—. Whereupon the teacher transfixed me with a glance and said in a chilly tone, "You are wanted in the office." Quickly the class trans¬ferred its attention to my person. As one condemned I arose amidst the silence and stumbled to the door. After closing it, I traveled fearfully down the hall, alone, except for my thoughts. "What awful crime had I committed unknowingly? Had I ab¬sent-mindedly stuck my chewing gum on somebody's back? Had my bouble been cracking safes? Was I failing? Horrors, I must acquit myself at all costs!" The lockers gave me no sympathy, the floor made no reply. My heart played a funeral march and my knees played "Home Land Good-by." I felt my hair turning gray as I neared the office and paused to get a drink before I entered the fatal door. "Who knows what might befall me here? I thought, why haven't I drawn up my will?" Well, farewell my friends and foes," said I as I en¬tered the place Of doom. As I entered, I felt several eyes fasten upon me with a questioning gaze. Oh," thought I, "the lions are ready to devour my poor carcass." So lost was I in gloomy thoughts, that I jumped like a grasshopper, when a deep voice directed at me said, "Do you want something?" It was a menacing voice I decided, and I shook as I replied in a nervous tone. "No sir, you sent for me," and I looked very distressed as a lump arose in my throat. He asked my name and looked puzzled, "Well," he said, "It's not you I want; I beg your pardon." The world suddenly turned a ros¬eate hue, as I tripped the light fan¬tastic out of the room. —Marion Brown. —O-H-S— Man (in drug Store) I want some consecrated lye. Druggist—You mean concentrated lye. Man—It does nutmeg any differ¬ence. That's what I camphor. What does it sulphur? Druggist—Fifteen scents, I never cinnanmon with so much wit. Man—Well, I myrrh, myrrh! Yet, ammonia a novice at it. Oprheum Candy Co. "See Us First" Watson-Tanner Clothing Co