Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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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.

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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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Hast AMI ant Testament of tile Class of ’ll Adelia Payne We, the Class of June, 1911, of Analy High School, of the City of Sebastopol, of the County of Sonoma, in the State of California, over the age of reasoning power, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, and not acting under duress, menace or fraud, or under undue influence of any person whatsoever, do make, publish and declare this to be the last will and testament of the class of June, 1911, and do bequeath our earthly possessions as follows: L the faculty, .we leave the bright and studious Junior class. We realize their inability to ever progress in the manner in which we have, but our advice and coun¬ sel is always at their service. II. To old Analy, we leave our remarkable reputation to be held up as a model to those Freshmen who need just such a high mark to spur them on. III. We leave to Mr. Williamson, our agriculture en¬ thusiast, a small tract of land in the S. W. half of the E. Section of Analy Township, carefully cultivated, as you see, and with all the necessary tools accompanying IV. To Miss Smith, realizing babyish ways and her love for the childish Freshmen, we leave this sweet little doll. The doll’s name is Caesar, and we are sure that we have found for it a tender and devoted mother. V. To Miss Kinnear, we leave a useful and, we think, an appropriate article. We know too well her zeal in de¬ tecting the faintest whisper in the study hall, and in order that she may find her duty easier we leave to her a magni¬ fying glass. VI. To Mr. Burd who, we well know, thinks the Nickleodeon the cause of many poor recitations in short¬ hand, we leave this roll of tickets in the hope that they may