Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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Class Propljecp Harold Wiggins »Vhat! write a prophecy. Say, I’ve scraped my head and rattled my scattered brains until my attempted sleep has been—well, but an attempt and of no avail. So here I am, a disgusted piece of humanity on my way to the dear old Wishing-Gate, where I may have a good long look into the future. I first enter the town of Suffragonia, “the realm of woman,” and crowding my way through the cheering mass, arrive at the curb just in time to see a red streak whizz by on a gizzard-shaking motor-cycle. On inquiry I am told that their candidate for Governor was just leav¬ ing in her touring car for a canvass of the State. “But who is she -” Thereupon I was handed a card, which read: “Vote for” who? Sure enough, “Miss Adelia Payne.” Now I stand before the side-show tent of one of the big circuses, The little, sawed-off gentleman on the box is yell¬ ing: “Ladies and gentlemen, postively your last and only chance to behold the far-famed and wide renowed Pedero in his death-defying leap, turning triple sommersaults, and—actually—I say actually—tying himself in a knot and alighting on his chest one hundred and fifty feet be¬ low.” None other, my friends, than Paul Woolsey. “Suc¬ cess to you, Paul, but I must hurry away to the Wishing- G ate. Now I stand on a street corner in San Francisco. In one of the huge touring cars that pass by, I see Bernard Wilkie surrounded by a bevy of fair society belles. He is now one of San Francisco’s millionaire ' bachelors and “they’re all after him.” After this, I travel through wooded hills until, at last, I

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Presentation J peec!) Ernest Hansen As we are about to bid farewell to this school which has become so dear to us, we wish to leave something by which we may be remembered. The subject of our choice is a painting from the chivalrous life of the legendary period of English History. You have read the stories of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, and how these men had vowed to do deeds of righteousness. At one time the Holy Grail, which was supposed to have been the cup which our Savior used to dispense the wine at the Last Supper, was brought to England and there appeared under mysterious condi¬ tions to King Arthur and his knights. After a short time it suddenly vanished and thereupon the knights set out in a world wide search for the mystic vessel, but only one was successful. This was Sir Galahad who, although the youngest, was pure of heart, and it was only by living this pure life that he was successful in his quest. George Frederick Watts, an English painter of the nine¬ teenth century, was so impressed by the ideality of this person that he painted a picture which wondrously ex¬ presses the spotless purity of the knight. It is this pic¬ ture, “Sir Galahad,” that we have selected. Sir Galahad stands by the side of his snow white horse in an attitude of devotion, as if he had seen the heavenly vision through the forest shades. His spiritual face, most marvelously expressed by the painter, signifies that his We, therefore, to show our gratification to the teachers, mission is spiritual and not mortal. in part, and also to leave a remembrance of the graduating class of Nineteen Hundred and Eleven, present to the An- aly Union High School the painting of this ideal youth, whose purity of thought, word and deed may, for years to come, be a constant memorial to stimulate the pupils to deeds of valor, purity and brotherly love.

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approach a one-roomed district school. The teacher, a small, active person with unbecoming spectacles well down on her nose, is just dismissing school. As she waves good¬ bye to the last, awkward boy of eighteen, I behold behind her spectacles the bright, happy face of my class-mate, Evelyn Sweetnam. “Say, Evelyn, aren’t you kind of lost up here?” ' The next source of interest in my journey is an old tum¬ ble down shack. In one corner I find, perched on a high stool and surrounded by beakers, batteries,. coils, wires and every conceivable accessary to a well-equipped labora¬ tory, his sleeves rolled up to his neck, my old companion, Ray Johnson. He tells me that he is the sixth stage of the five hundred stages of his search for perpetual mo¬ tion. ... . . I arrive in a small chapel just in time to enjoy the clos¬ ing scene of a matrimonial service. The small clergyman, in filling out the necessary document, becomes puzzled over the date and asks of the bride, “Is this the sixth or the sev¬ enth?” “Why, parson,” exclaimed Blanche Moran, “you always do all of my business; you know this is only my fifth.” What is that noise? I enter a well furnished dentist’s office, and lo and behold! There before me stands Ernest Hansen, hammering the gold in the teeth of a suffering patient with as little concern as if he were leading the yells at “Old Analy.” “Better go a little tit easy, old man, or vou’11 have the while police force after you for disturbing the peace.” As I near a large bakery my appetite is kindled by the enticin ' odors emitted from the kitchen in the rear. Upon entering, my surprise upon meeting Ida Halberg is equaled only by the achings of my inner self. Who would have imagined that those leather-crusted samples of bread in the laboratory would he the ancestors of those appetiz¬ ing pies and tarts now lying before me? My search for the Wishing-Gate seems to have been in vain, for I now find myself before “Si” Rule’s Soda Foun¬ tain enjoying the sensation of having a root beer soda trickling dov n my parched and aching throat.