Aquinas Institute - Arete Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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wiser band. These whose determination had been weakened by the stormy sessions passed through the year previous, those whose courage had deserted them at the thought of what had yet to be overcome, had dropped out. But the remainder were there, smiling bravely and gazing unflinch- ingly at all odds. Led on by our instructors, we classified the unintelligible; unraveled the complicated. We discovered the secrets of Sphinx-like Geometry which like the Sphinx, of itself reveals no secrets, but new aims ever are objects of wonder and exploration. We wandered through the passes of the Alps and across the plains of Gaul with Caesar. We fought in his front ranks and enjoyed his pleasures; endured his hardships; cele- brated his triumphs. That truly was an eventful year and one whose close brought about but a single joy — the added dignity which we had laboriously earned. History repeats itself and it proved to be the case with us when we returned the following September. The long vacation’s usual depletion of the ranks was scarcely noticeable. The new term brought on a new dig- nity. We were Juniors. Three milestones passed and only one remaining. The thought spurred us on to greater efforts. Like to the Romans of old, we had fought our battles on the field and were returning to take up newer conquests in the Senate Chamber with toga-robed Cicero. We heard his long-winded plea for the passage of the Manilian Law and his passionate denunciation of arch-conspirator, Cataline. Geometry was superseded by Physics which proved equally as trying as the former had been. During the course of the year, a debate was held between the Seniors and Juniors. The subject was an interesting one concerning Prison Reform. The Junior ' s side of the question which was the negative, was upheld by Messrs. Klee, FitzGerald and Tierney, who displayed more than ordinary talent in argumentation and delivery. “Sinite hoc loco praeterire me nostram calamitatem,” says Cicero. So say we. Suffice it to say that if the Juniors showed more than ordinary ability, what must the prowess of the Seniors have been that caused the former to acknowledge defeat at their hands. The year passed almost before we were aware of it, but we were firm believers in preparedness and in June we were not cast into the balance and found wanting. At last, we entered upon the home stretch of our high school life. The goal, long-sought, coveted, was perceivably nearer. But we found a big change had come over our school. Upon the opening of the new Naza- reth Academy, the girls had been transferred thereto. Thus, at one stroke, we were deprived of a great deal of the knowledge in which our girls excelled. Virgil and Chemistry had their terrors but we were too proud to display any sign that would betray our feelings. Were we not Seniors? Should those who occupied the highest position in the school show signs of fear? We thought not. Perhaps it was best in the end, for nothing is so encouraging as confidence displayed in one’s self or in others. The Class of Nineteen Seventeen certainly has every reason to be proud of its members. Gene Leicht can outpitch Mathewson; Jack McCarthy is as good an organizer as Alexander; Squeak Tierney has the voice of a Demosthenes; FitzGerald, well, no one loves a fat man, anyway; Rampe has the satire of a Johnson ; Klee has the brains of an Edison ; Lynd displays the capabilities of a bank president. Space will not allow the

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The Senior Class Record ]NOTHER page in school history has been written. The Class of Nineteen Hundred and Seventeen are about to leave their beloved Alma Mater and wander forth into the cold, unfeeling world whose chilly tenacles confront them at every turn. Before entering upon a new era in our lives, perhaps, it were well to cast a parting glance at that which has caused us our joys and sor- rows; that which has raised our hopes and fears, for “The Moving Finger writes, and having writ Moves on. Nor all thy Piety nor thy Wit Can lure it back to cancel half a line Nor all Thy tears wash out a word of it.” How true this is! How clearly the poets understood the passing of time and how vividly did they hand down their conception to us. Those golden hours which we have spent within the halls of the Rochester Catholic High School have lied, as elusively as the glittering sunbeam. A moment of antici pation; a molecule of time spent in its enjoyment or its use, and it is gone never to return. Surely, the fact that we are now about to leave our beloved school, ought to impress upon our minds the necessity of use- fully appropriating Father Time’s most precious gift — Time itself. But I have digressed from my theme. The real object of these few paragraphs is to briefly recount the deeds and exploits of the already famous members of that famous class. Never in all her history has the school been so blessed. Yes. blessed, and if there exists in the mind of the reader a shadow of doubt, let him continue to read this account of their achievements and that doubt will be dispelled. To repeat, 1 say, never was the school so blessed as it has been blessed by the presence of our class. The Class of Nineteen Seventeen is as the sun which shines of itself, steady, and undimmed even though clouds obscure the sky. When dark night covers our portion of the earth as with a blanket, we are still con- scious of the existence of the sun among the heavenly bodies ; we know that it is still shining with its wonted splendor. So it is with our class. Only the blind can doubt the existence of the sun, and only those among us who have lost the senses of sight and hearing can doubt of our undimmed splen- dor as a class. It was a bright autumnal day in the fall of 1913 when we first made our bow to the august members of the faculty and the upper classmen of the Rochester Catholic High School. The class was. in all respects. Ameri- can-Cosmopolitan. Every parish in the city and many of those in nearby towns and villages had its representative among our ranks. How green we felt, how not unlike the verdant fields that the soft spring breezes bring forth! Even now. the thought of with what reverence and yearning we gazed upon the millenium of Seniority, brings forth a smile. But that leeling soon passed as we successively mastered the fundamental secrets of Latin, solved the labyrinthan intraeies of Algebra and clambered over the difficulties of First-Year English. The September of the following year, we returned, a smaller but a 28

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extolling of all, but the above characterizations gives a pretty fair idea of our abilities. Just one more word before this history is brought to a close. Our beloved country, facing an inevitable and dangerous crisis, issued an appeal to all her loving sons. The Class of Nineteen Seventeen responded nobly. Already Harold Clark has joined the colors. Many more will follow. Mili- tary training was taken up with such enthusiasm that it boded ill for any foreign invader. After the term is over, a great many will offer their services in the industrial world to take the places of those who enter the United States service. Thus, after having done their bit in school, the class will venture forth to offer their country all that it has to claim of them. Deus et Patria. — George A. Sturla. Editor’s Note. — M r. Sturla has given the readers a good idea of the accomplishments of the members of the Class of 1917, both individually and collectively, but he has modestly refrained from mention of himself. Perhaps, however, it is unnecessary to enumerate the many times he has rendered invaluable service to the literary activities of the class. We shall let this and other creations of his fertile brain which are contained in this book, speak for their creator. The Editorial Board wishes, however, that it could fittingly express its gratitude to this young man who, as he has said of others, has himself nobly responded to the call of the colors and has joined the Third N. Y. Infantry, which left a few weeks ago for the Federal barracks in Columbus. Ohio. After the War Above the roar of cannon. The battle-clamor shrill — Above men’s groans and curses, A voice cries, “Peace, be still! Enough of blood and slaying. Enough of strife and hate ; The bitter wrong is righted ; Lo ! Peace stands at the gate. 0. Peace! God’s white-robed angel With spotless skirt and feet. How welcome thy returning. Thy gentleness how sweet ; The red sword of the nation Drive hilt-deep in the sod. Now twine thy lilies ' round it, And both shall honor God. — Selected. 30