Adrian High School - Sickle Yearbook (Adrian, MI)

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expectation, for she is the long heralded speaker on Woman's Rights. My curiosity increases. Another scene appears: asniall but prettily furnished room, as much like a sitting room as one for study, in it are Miss Lucy Galloway and Adeline Dyer, surrounded by a group of little blind children whom they are teaching. This also vanishes. Next I behold a faculty meeting of some university. Prominent among these men is Roy Beal. Yes, at another glance, I can readily see he is president of the institution. What a mark he has made for himself! This is a position which stands for positive attainment. No mere forensic brilliancy can compensate for deficiencies of learning. A man may be president of the United States without being a scholar, but he can not be president of a college without wide scholastic attainment. And what is this? A copy of the Noank Review. I think I'll read a little of it. Noank Review, Aug. 3o, 1910, published and edited by Leon H. Treat. Entered at the postoliice as second-class matter. What's this? Great Slaughter in Men's Furnishing Goods, preparatory to receiving New Fall Styles. Everything must go. Call and see us. F. R. Saul SL Co. Some more news. At the Episcopal parsonage to-morrow evening will be held the first of a series of concerts, etc. Why! these names are interesting. The rector's wife, Mrs. Simpson, will open the entertaimnent with a vocal solo. Here is a reading by Miss Ida Letford. I see also that Miss Belle Collins is down for a piano solo. Well, well, this is indeed interesting: Miss Florence Bennett and Miss Sadie Edwards left this afternoon for San Francisco, whence they will sail on Saturday for japan. Miss Edwards has entered the missionary field, and Miss Bennett is to perfect herself in the japanese language. Here is another advertisement: Miss Nellie O'Neill, Teacher of French. Private lessons, ,?I.OO. Public classes Wediiesdayfs and Fridays, 5oc. And if Mr. Shattuck isn't a a literary man! Mr, Shattuck's latest detective story, His Ignominious Death, which has been so well received in our own country, has been recently translated into French. Its reception into European literary circles is an almost assured fact, and we congratulate Mr. Shattuck on his deserved success. The paper vanishes, and now-a storm just off a rocky coast. Terrible waves are sweeping into a vessel, whose bul- warks are already three parts washed away. Passengers are running excitedly to and fro on deck. In one of these I rec- ognize Katherine McCarthy. She is clinging anxiously to the rail, gazing out over the angry waters at the life-saving crew which can be seen just leaving the distant shore. Another friend, I perceive the captain, Charles james, clinging to the mast. He seems to be giving orders to cast off the boats already crowded. The picture grows dimmer Zllld dinnner-it fades away. VVere they saved or not? Alas, we cannot tell. But another scene is taking its place. Seated before a drawing table which is covered with the plans of some immense structure he is building, is Clarence Wilcox. Stealing down slanting ladders of floating dust, trem- ulous rays of sunlight illumine a desk piled high with mail, and pattern a wall hung with photographs of the different buildings which have marked the progress of his engineering career.

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CLASS PROPHECY. Jessie L. Strong. PALMISTRY has been studied, horo- scopes coniigurated, the rules and principles of phrenology declaimed, in fact researches have been made into all scientific lore, each effort seeking the same goal, the portrayal of the future. For weeks I have meditated o11 this question, have, indeed, subjected it to a logical course of study, but not until last night did I attempt its proof. I have been reasoning in some way like this: suppose that all the people whom one will meet during life be held together by an invisible bond of mutual attraction, that in the mind of each be imprinted his own career and the character and vocations of all those with whom he comes in contact, then if something could picture out these personalities, thus making the mind's thoughts com- prehensible to the mind itself, the future could be read like an open book. Last evening, preparing this miniature cuvette, which contains a waxy substance of great reflective power, I attempted Cby way of an experimentj to read my own destiny. After I had gazed into the depths of this vessel a few seconds, an image began faintly but clearly to appear. just then, how- ever, the door of my room was thrown open and an intruder rudely broke i11 on my musings. Now I shall take up my work agam and endeavor to read my own fate. If successful in this task, I shall then look for the destinies of my several classmates. W' hat is this I see? Can it be possible that I've discovered a pathway into the future? Is it-yes, it is--a likeness of myself g but it seems fading away. I can now distinguish only its faint outlines. Our theory, however, is an established fact. The future can be read. My own destiny I've failed to see, but now, O Muses, picture to me the fates of the Class of '99. A picture becomes clearer and clearer before me: a room in an old tenement house such as suggests foul air unfit to breathe, and outside-a hall, dark and dingy, reached only by three or four iiights of narrow, dusty stairs, waving and creaking beneath even the lightest tread. In one corner on a rude pallet of straw lies a child whose pale, wan face looks appealingly into that of a man kneeling beside her. This man is Wilfred Byron Shaw, a physician who, while many of his patients are of high social rank, yet loves to wander down into the slums of the city and relieve a portion of the suffer- ing which attends such a place. This image fades. Now I behold an auditorium crowded to overflowing. The curtain rises and with majestic stride Mlle. Greene marches to the footlights. XVith head thrown upward and pose self-assured she stands before them. The en- tire feminine portion of the audience bend forward with eager

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And now-a view of a temple, yes, some great temple in Egypt! The whole is more or less in ruins. But now the work of restoration is begun under the supervision of George Reynolds. With fully three hundred natives under his direc- tion, he is repairing the crumbling base of a column. This view vanishes, while another appears: before a shop window are messengers and newsboys .vieing with one another for a glimpse of a photograph. Passing in and out of the store a fashionably dressed throng is eagerly hurrying to pro- cure a picture, or bearing one carefully away. It is a likeness of Miss Mabel Hornby whose fame as a monologue artist is rec- ognized throughout the country. The likeness is a fine one, and the dark green card mount bears the inscription Therese Kisinger, Photographer. 3 ' Miss Hattie Rowley is standing by a table, cutting out paper patterns for the amusement and instruction of the some thirty little ones attending the kindergarten. Every now and then she glances warningly over her room. About ten of her flock are enjoying a recreation in one corner, build- ing little block houses on a table, near which Evelyn Force is standing ready to quell any little controversies which may arise. Why! This now seems to be our own County Fair. It's one side of a horticultural hall, festooned with garlands of grapes hung on a wall made of wheat. Pumpkins and squash of immense size are artistically arranged on a slanting shelf, before which, leaning over its protecting rail, is Miss, or she who was, Miss Bertha Love. She is not alone, a man, easily recognized, is by her side. Their enthusiasm and delight increases as they behold four different varieties of squash with a blue ticket attached to each. Now this vision disappears. What is this? The friendship between Miss Alice Brown and Graella Remmele still continues, and their lives bid fair to be happy. For before me is a corner of' a conservatory. Admirers, some with aspect stern, others light-hearted and gay, are grouped about these young women, as inseparably connected with their lives as the clinging petals are to the budding rose. Now, a truly bachelor's apartments. The walls are hung with war relics and trophies of the chase. At the farther side is a mantel whose shelf is loaded with photographs, souvenirs, etc. At the left is a Turkish corner, richly decorated, indeed. The drapery is of priceless tapestry, caught up at the center of the enclosing arch by the teeth of a grinning skull. A table, rug, and a Turkish divan form the interior. On this divan, with its many pillows so dexterously arranged that his feet are on a level with his head, is Jerome Moran, leading a life of ease and luxury. Through the half-drawn draperies of the other side, another apartment can be seen as richly, yet much more simply furnished. A glass door opens out of this room. It is lettered in black and reads k-r-a-p. Ah! I'm reading backward-it is P-a-r-k. R. C. Park, Oil Inspector, private oliice. Again, a few wheelmen are picking their way along a crowded thoroughfare. The sidewalks, too, are thronged. There I recognize a familiar face, Elva Kingsbury's. Across the street, standing at the windows of their dental rooms are Verna Wiggins and Tressie Rogers. They also are gazing up the street as if impatiently awaiting something of great moment. Two mounted policemen, in one of whom I recog-