1923 Yearbook
Source URL
Title
1923 Yearbook
Description
The beast, infuriated by the scarlet and lashed to purple anger by these personal
insinuations, lowered his head and charged.
Thud!
The mighty mammal crashed into the atmosphere where the matador had been.
Walenkeeno had dexterously side-stepped and was again waving the provoking red flag.
Bellowing his intense rage, the bull again bolted at his tormentor, determined to pin
him to earth.
Crash!
Again the Gibraltar of muscle struck that section of space where the nimble Sheik
had been casually standing but a split second before.
(The spectators now breathed with difficulty because the bull was driving all of the
air from the enclosure with his powerful rushes.)
Recklessly young Walenkeeno advanced upon the snorting animal vaunting the
blood-hued banner.
Trembling with rage; his expanded nostrils purging fire; his small eyes flashing
lightning; his whole being in the grip of a massine passion; the magnificent bison
charged once more. With a scornful laugh the agile matador side-stepped the on-
rushing bull and ran to the pit-side where he dropped the aggravating banner in favor
of a long sword. Trotting to the royal box he faced his majesty; and, drawing his
body to rigid attention, pointed his sword in salute.
The champion ran out into the pit. The bull caught sight of him. Emitting a
hair-raising, resonating snort, which caused the gentler sex to snuggle closer to their
escorts, (many of these sturdy seniors also experienced ill-concealed agues), he rushed
furiously. On and on he came—swiftly thundering—the weight of his heavy hoofs as
they crunched upon the firm sand created a staccato, ominous, drum-rolling rumble.
Death—cold—bloody—agonizing—was inevitable. But who?
The matador slowly rose to tiptoe; vaunted his muscular frame and leveled his
blade. At the psychological moment—the bolting mammoth but an arm's length away
—he lunged forward—a lightning thrust. Deep the sword projected from the breast
of the ill-fated beast.
The earth trembled, the sun shuddered to a halt, stars fell, the mountains belched
forth fire and brimstone, lightning flashed, thunder boomed—or so it seemed, the
applause assumed such universe-jarring proportions. The crazed people tore their own
and others' hair, ripped their garments, whistled, shouted, clapped their hands and
stamped their feet. Canes, crutches, chairs, hats, coats, shoes and empty bottles rilled
the air. Drums were beaten, horns were blown—to say pandemonium reigned would
lie as appropriate as referring to the vast Pacific as California's dry spot.
As was his custom, Walenkeeno elevated his hands; and, turning slowly, nodded his
head.
The King rose from his chair and with a loud cry of approval cast a handful of
coins at the admirable conqueror. The notion spread with the rapidity of a wind-
Page 188
insinuations, lowered his head and charged.
Thud!
The mighty mammal crashed into the atmosphere where the matador had been.
Walenkeeno had dexterously side-stepped and was again waving the provoking red flag.
Bellowing his intense rage, the bull again bolted at his tormentor, determined to pin
him to earth.
Crash!
Again the Gibraltar of muscle struck that section of space where the nimble Sheik
had been casually standing but a split second before.
(The spectators now breathed with difficulty because the bull was driving all of the
air from the enclosure with his powerful rushes.)
Recklessly young Walenkeeno advanced upon the snorting animal vaunting the
blood-hued banner.
Trembling with rage; his expanded nostrils purging fire; his small eyes flashing
lightning; his whole being in the grip of a massine passion; the magnificent bison
charged once more. With a scornful laugh the agile matador side-stepped the on-
rushing bull and ran to the pit-side where he dropped the aggravating banner in favor
of a long sword. Trotting to the royal box he faced his majesty; and, drawing his
body to rigid attention, pointed his sword in salute.
The champion ran out into the pit. The bull caught sight of him. Emitting a
hair-raising, resonating snort, which caused the gentler sex to snuggle closer to their
escorts, (many of these sturdy seniors also experienced ill-concealed agues), he rushed
furiously. On and on he came—swiftly thundering—the weight of his heavy hoofs as
they crunched upon the firm sand created a staccato, ominous, drum-rolling rumble.
Death—cold—bloody—agonizing—was inevitable. But who?
The matador slowly rose to tiptoe; vaunted his muscular frame and leveled his
blade. At the psychological moment—the bolting mammoth but an arm's length away
—he lunged forward—a lightning thrust. Deep the sword projected from the breast
of the ill-fated beast.
The earth trembled, the sun shuddered to a halt, stars fell, the mountains belched
forth fire and brimstone, lightning flashed, thunder boomed—or so it seemed, the
applause assumed such universe-jarring proportions. The crazed people tore their own
and others' hair, ripped their garments, whistled, shouted, clapped their hands and
stamped their feet. Canes, crutches, chairs, hats, coats, shoes and empty bottles rilled
the air. Drums were beaten, horns were blown—to say pandemonium reigned would
lie as appropriate as referring to the vast Pacific as California's dry spot.
As was his custom, Walenkeeno elevated his hands; and, turning slowly, nodded his
head.
The King rose from his chair and with a loud cry of approval cast a handful of
coins at the admirable conqueror. The notion spread with the rapidity of a wind-
Page 188
Date
1923
Rights
St. Ambrose University, 518 W. Locust St., Davenport, IA 52803
Identifier
http://cdm16810.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/ref/collection/p16810coll2/id/7799