Page 47 - 1969

SUPER ARTICHOKE Give him outside jobs particularly in the rain. The
I haven’t been an artichoke my whole life. It
started when a man with a gun entered the bank
where I was cashing a check, about a year ago.
Being the dildock I didn’t think I was, I lunged
at the robber. He pulled the trigger, and “ZAP!” I
started to shrink smaller and smaller. “Horrors,” I
thought, “He zapped me with the deadly vegetable
fun!” The suspense was killing me. Would I
ecome a pea, a kernel of corn, a carrot? No, I
was . . . an artichoke!
Ever since that experience, I have felt strange. I
grew stronger, stronger, stronger, until I became
. . . Super Artichoke! Until now, I had been
hiding m a waxed fruit bowl, waiting for an
emergency, so I can fly to the scene as Super
Artichoke.
The secret of an artichoke’s success in handling
emergencies is patience. I also realize that an
ordinary man doesn’t possess a Super Artichoke’s
instinct for trouble, and it is not man’s fault if he
doesn’t make it to a crime in time.
At a crime, all one would have to do (if one
were an artichoke) is to brace all ten leaves on the
ground, stretch out two arm leaves, and grab the
thief around the middle. Then, halt suddenly, thus
getting the thief flat on his back.
I remember one incident, oh, about three
months ago. 1 was lying in my fruit bowl, ready
for an afternoon nap, when, all of a sudden, the
little voice in the back of my head said, “Super
Artichoke, Super Artichoke, yo’all wake up now,
you hear, Third and Main St.”
I jumped up and taking a big leap, flew through
the air to the crime. SUPER ARTICHOKE TO
THE RESCUE! I landed unnoticed by the villain,
and wound my leaves around his ankles. He
tripped, and the police were on him in a minute.
I then slipped into the police car, and rode to
the jail. I believe that punishment should be heaped
on but only in deliberate criminal actions.
Helen Millett, Senior II snow-frozen; the trees surrounding it are ominous
HOW TO RUIN YOUR BROTHER IN 180
EASY-TO-READ WORDS BY SOMEONE
WHO HAS USED THIS PLAN THREE TIMES
Lesson I:
You (the reader) mustn’t ever let your brother
win anything.
This can be accomplished by cheating or lying.
You have to do everything better than he:
changing your clothes quicker, swimming, and
playing “Go Fish”.
Lesson II:
You must make him get blamed for everything
and I mean EVERYTHING! If you rip your
mother’s girdle or something, you have to make
HIM get blamed: the thing I found most effective
was to hide it in your brother’s room in a place
easy for your mother to find.
Lesson III:
Last but not least —you must be stronger. Work
him constantly. Never give him a chance to relax.
matter of physical conditioning is important. He
should be fed well and given the least amount of
exercise possible.
P.S.: This will not work on sisters because they
are —. (Use your imagination).
Stephen Lubanko, Senior II
A CAMEL’S ORDEAL
My daily routine just shouldn’t happen to a
oor, harmless creature like me. It is true that I
ave a rather awkward figure, rather bulky at
some spots and long, high and curvy at others. Yet
I demand very little to survive, and my disposition
is calm for I am not apt to be high strung or
sensitive. I don’t even mind when my odor seems
to have a peculiar effect upon the tourists who
always grasp their noses with what I suspect to be
an expression of distaste.
As for me, confidentially, I respond gratefully to
an occasional friendly gesture, such as a lump of
sugar. Once I even snarled and nipped at a tourist
for holding out on me. Still, I consider myself
quite tame and not at all like an average camel
who has a tendency to gobble everything in sight.
My favorite pastime is to sit in a relaxed
position in the hot sun, but those mercenary
guides are destined to amuse those naive tourists
at my expense. Solemnly swaying along with my
load, I have become leadbroken and I follow my
leader with docility.
Lisa Muran, Senior II
The lonely garret creaked and groaned. The old
man inside pressed his fingers on the cold window
pane. Snow was strewn across the countryside,
snowbanks piled high as a man here and there. A
tall spruce towered above the others in the woods
behind the old farmhouse. Stars shone brightly,
but one was more radiant, bigger, brighter than
the others. Christmas Eve? Ah yes, it must be.
He watched as Ben, the stable boy, closed the
barn door. Bertha, the cook, let the dogs and cats
out the kitchen door; she stood in a trance at the
beauty of the evening. A voice inside draws her
back inside. The pond for the ducks and geese is
giants standing — waiting. Sounds of merriment
come from the farmhouse; one of the parents
must be playing Santa Claus for the children.
Some caroilers trudge to the farmhouse door, the
snow squeaking beneath their feet. As they sing,
the merriment inside stops and is still. Then the
song ends, and they are beckoned in for a snack.
The horse gives his bells a shake. After the
caroilers leave, Ben opens the stable door once
more. Now all is still. No more laughter from the
house. No more the opening and shutting of
doors. The peace of the holy eve is so quiet that
looking at the North Star, the old man sees it form
the Virgin Mary and child.
Pamela French, Senior III