THE O. H. S. TIGER, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 28, 1923. Page 3 LITERARY WHOSE FRIENDS? In learning I was not a freak, Because "Ambition" failed to speak, Old "Will" and "Can" could not abide While "Don't Care" lingered by my side. In strehgth and power this friend I met Brought forth his comrade "Fail" and "Quit" While down the street called "Never- Know," We dragged along with footsteps slow. We looked for "Pleasure" everywhere, But "Disappointment" met our stare. Our lasting friend is with us yet, His Christian name is plain "Regret." —O-H-S— HOME Home is a place where true joy is found, Tho oft' intermingled with sorrow; If love, peace and unity always abound We can safely look forth to the morrow. The mother with happiness aglow on her face Hears all of our stories, our griefs and our fears; Her's is the power our souls solace, She gives us true courage and helps dry our tears. What a dreary old world without mother and home, Their worth thru life is beyond all else dear; Let us think less of pleasures that have transient cheer, Be thankful each day for our moth¬er and home. J. A. R. Class '24. —O-H-S— DREAMS The night outside was crispy, And the lights inside were low As he sat before the fireplace And watched its rosy glow. The figure in the bright red flames Were dancing round and round, Were lightly, sprightly skipping, For a dreamer they had found. He watched, as the dancers faded, Appear a lovely head, A dear, sweet face of long ago, A girl who now was dead. He watched her as her rosy lips Curled upward in a smile, And watched her as she beckoned him. "Was life on Earth worth while?" And from the flames, they haunted him, Those merry eyes of blue They were the eyes, of a dear girl Who, to him had been true. And suddenly he heard a call. It could have been the wind;— But ah, he knew, full well he knew That she had called to him. Until its last small brightlit spark The dancers flicked about And as he sat there dreaming The fire burnt slowly out. —Violet Letts. —O-H-S— The night is gone, and the darkness Has faded from my sight And the distant sheepbells' tinkle Hails forth the morning light. I hear the cows a lowing, And the knocking of the horn; I hear the horses stamping While lined up in the barn. Then o'er me comes a feeling, A thrilling in my soul; This world is made for gladness Wrought by God's comely toil, Out in the fields the music Floats down from the birds in the trees, And the fragrance of the meadows Is wafted on the breeze. The love of the Great Creator, In forest, grove and stream Proclaims a joy eternal From Nature's wealth serene. —O-H-S— NOSES The most badly abused and used thing in this wide world is the hu¬man nose. This poor thing is the victim of men and women alike. It was made for the purpose of receiv¬ing the air and sending it to our mechanical parts, called lungs, but instead it is coddled, petted, pow¬dered, blown, pulled and almost jumped upon. Woe to this world if it had but a voice; this human race would be black with curses, and the nose, demanding its rights, would beg for less abuse. Women and girls with their powder puffs, will pat until the powder will pile in huge mounds and the wicked breeze will blow it off, and make a powder storm more suffocating than a sand storm on the Sahara Desert. Do the girls do this to hide the dirt? I don't know, but just imagine if they didn't wash their noses and just kept powdering them as they do, could you finally believe they were noses? Wouldn't it be a fine sight to see her come down the street, the one you like, of course, with so much powder on, you couldn't even recognize her? —Shame on me; leave that to the girls; they will fix their noses up-to- date, without any advice from any¬body.— The nose besides being powdered, is also a pack mule of huge warts, Isn't this a shame" It would even stir anger in the breast of a saint, to load an overgrown wart on a poor helpless nose. Can you blame me for commenting on such an act? But still people do it and don't seem to be concerned in the least; they even go to the extreme of powdering it, Horrible! Musically inclined people see the advantage of practicing their solos, with their noses, at night while in bed. The most beautiful solos can be play¬ed, from all the way of opera num¬bers to buzz saws, on the nose. The music affects some people so greatly, that the musician is hastily waked and thrown out the window. Is the nose to blame? Never! It can be used for better purposes. Other people will saddle this poor creature with such things as spec¬tacles. How can the thing live un¬der such conditions? The heavy horned-rims or gold ones, if the wear¬er can afford them, are saddled on it from the bridge to the nostrils. Some people like them way down and would take them lower, but they don't fit, but anyway the nose car¬ries them without a saddle, and doesn't utter a sound in protest. Have you ever thought o fwhat a faith¬ful servant you have on your face? I will now let you in on a little secret. How do noses get red? Rath¬er deep isn't it? It is not always sunshine, but the sister shine that comes out at night, invariably pro¬duces the noticeable ruddy glow. Sometimes the kick of a mule, usually white, aids in producing the same ef¬fect. Now do you understand the great task your nose undertakes when it first sprouts out on your face? Therefore, remember in the future, for your sake and its sake, treat it humanly and you will profit hereafter. Amen! —Herbert Verheek. —O-H-S— "FRIENDS" "Friends are riches; their value can not be measured." Success and wealth would only serve as mockery if we had no friends to cling to for love, and sympathy, in our rights and wrongs. This world, indeed, would be vague and meaningless if the many people whom we associate with daily were not our friends. Someone has said, "Show me his friends, and I can tell you what the man is." Thus it is, men are judged by the friends they keep, and as it is one's friends that help us form our habits, we should indeed be careful in the selection. Even great men had friends; for instance, Napoleon once stood sentry for his soldier eomrade who had fal¬len asleep, and so saved him from being shot. Swift was so affected by the loss of his friends by death, that he some¬times wished he had never had a friend. So it is, every year adds its value to friendship, as to a tree, and friends become a part of us; they make us happy, share our joys, and our sor¬rows. What comes from the heart goes to the heart, and the worst solitude is to want a friend, for the man you don't like is the man you do not know. Friends affect us in much the same manner as flowers, for they make us happy and bright, always seeing the beautiful side of life. When they grow older they become even more valuable, for they leave a memory that is like the sweet scent of with¬ered flowers. Is it not true "friends who make us strive to bigger ideals, and appre¬ciate the better things?" Friends that are true tell us of our faults, we see theirs and learn to love them the more for having such faults for it is the short reckonings that make life-long friends. Good friends are as true and clear as a fresh stream, for friendship starts out small as does a stream, and widens as we go through life. "'Tis always wise to be aware of the character of our friends, "for 'tis the drops of untrue friends, that will wear a hole through our character." —Nellie Taylor. —O-H-S— MUSIC Music is the soul of mankind. It grows with him, and becomes a part of him. Without it he would be an inanimate thing. By music I do not mean the tech¬nical measures we find iir books, but the music of the world. I have found myself, lying on my back under a shady old tree, on a day so still that not even a leaf rustled; not even a drowsy old bumble-bee buzzed past. Even the sun seemed to have for¬gotten to proceed on its monotonous journey. No, I had not fallen as-leep; I was listening to the music of nature. No bird broke into melo¬dious carols; not even the distant: tinkling of a cow-bell could be heard, j but there was music. For one who i loves it, there is music always, every- ; where. In the dazzling white soli¬tude of the North, the pine trees j whisper, and the wolf-dogs sing their joys and sorrows. When we are sad and lonesome and a happy strain of music breaks in upon our brain, we leave our sor¬rows for another time, and we be¬come once more the happy creatures God made us. Merry, tuneful, melodies make us happy. Songs of spring, the recrea¬tion of all things, give us hop.e But the slow melodious tones of sweet¬ness make us sad. Music moulds the life of man. Fortunately there are few pessimists, for in their makeup music has been omitted. They hear the sudden bursts of the drum in an orchestra, but their ear never discerns the sweet melody of the mandolin. Music tells of the sweeter things in life. It can never be translated into bare examples, of fact. As we cannot describe flowers as anything other than the unspoken words of Christ, neither can we define music as other than the essence of holy love. —Irene Merrill. —O-H-S— IRRESPONSIBILITY OF YOUTH Sheddy stared nonchalantly down at his thin, shining black shins as he flicked an occasional fly with a young peach tree sprout. A mop of wiry wool formed his head's only protec¬tion from the sultry rays which caused great drops of perspiration to gather on his brow, finally to slide down his flattened nose as the only avenue of escape. Drawing a tattered, begrimed sleeve absently across his face in lieu of a handkerchief, he got up and strode lazily into the house. The master and his family being away, Sheddy was left to care for the place until their return. Wandering aimlessly through^the house, the boy, seeing the master's door ajar, walked in. Like many of the human species, the young Afri¬can possessed his quota of curiosity, which led him to look over the Mas¬ter's belongings with an eye to valu¬ables. Running an inquisitive hand into a trouser pocket, he brought forth a half dollar. While turning the treasure over in his hand, an in¬spired thought overwhelmed the un¬tutored young brain. Snatching his rag of a hat on his way out of the house, the young darky, filled with extrvagant expectations,, ran all of the one mile and a half to the gen¬eral country store. "Mistah Bannah, what am you' got foh a dollah?" "Lots of things," answered the mer¬chant, "What do you want"? "Oh wants sump'n foh a dollah." "I have some hats for a dollar," said the man as he looked at the boy's tattered head piece. "Yassah, a hat, dat am what oh's, gwine tuh buy, a hat, he, he. Mr. Bonner brought forth a hat, which seemed to float on the negro's wooly head. Thrusting the fifty-cent piece into Mr. Bonner's hand the proud customer turned to leave. "Here you young rascal! This is only a half dollar" exclaimed the merchant. The boy, turning an uncertain countenance upon Mr. Bonner, walk¬ed reluctantly back and took the hat off. Seeing his disappointment, the merchant gave Sheddy a fifty-cent hat instead of the first one. Walk¬ing to the door, the boy took the old hat by the crown and flung it out of the door with all his might, saying vehemently, "Go to de debbil!" That afternoon, seeing the new hat the Master questioned the young hopeful as to its acquisition. "Ah nebber bought it wid dat haff dollah what's in yo' pant's pocket!" This declaration aroused suspicion and the heartless fellow investigated, found the money was missing and promptly sent Sheddy back to the store to get it. Oh, why were disappointment and the hurt of broken hope catalogued in the list of human sufferings? As the boy emerged, bareheaded, from the store he paused to look closer, through the gathering gloom, at the ground. Presently he picked up a dusty, ragged object, pulled it down over his head and made his way slowly over the way which he had trod so lithesomely earlier in the day. —Ollie Nix. —O-H-S— EAGLE GROCERY John Rimer Prop. LUNCHES SCHOOL SUPPLIES Everything for High School Students Trade Across the Street Track Suits & Shoes C. E. Armstrong 306 25th st.