Fairfax Hall High School - Chain and Anchors Yearbook (Waynesboro, VA)

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A Glimpse Into the Future aes | HE MARDI GRAS at New Orleans was in full swing. The city was a riot of color and every one was entering into the spirit of the carnival. I alone seemed out of tune with my surround- ings. Lonely, and seeking vainly for diversion, I wandered down among the old antique shops on the river front. The gay abandon and joy of the carnival had not penetrated there. I entered one of the shops. It was dark, and the odor of musk filled the little room overcrowded with antiques. A little Jew in a long black smock and black skull cap came out of a back room at my entrance. Listlessly I looked at the beautiful things. Then suddenly my attention was arrested by a large transparent globe that seemed neither unique nor valuable. I picked it up and the Jew said, “That, Madam, is a magic globe. In it can be seen past, present, and future, as you wish.” My lips curled scornfully; I did not believe in fairies or miracles, but underneath all my cynicism was a streak of curiosity which all women possess, so I bought the globe and laughed at my foolishness. At night, though, I take out my new purchase. I wish I knew something of the seniors of ’22 at Fairfax, but I doubt the power of the globe to reveal the secret. As I gaze at it, however, it fills with a mist which slowly clears away. I see a manor house of old England with turreted roofs and gloomy towers. Under the porte-cochere stands a dream of a Rolls Royce. A liveried servant is holding the door. The bronze portals open, and the tall, dignified duchess of the manor steps forth. Though wrapped in sables the figure seems familiar. She turns— Gladys Knox! Again the mist envelops the scene. Slowly, slowly it clears away. The Great White Way of New York. One brilliant sign stands out above all the others: “Florenz Zeigfield presents Pauline Earl in ‘Why Men Leave Home’,” | Pauline constituting the chief reason. Then the inside of the crowded theatre is revealed on the stage, and, dancing madly in the spot light, a dainty morsel of femininity—our Polly of Fairfax. Then the chorus prances out and, in the front row, singing blithely, is Mae Carter from Virginia—if you please. Then the globe again becomes a blank. This time the clearing of the mist re- veals a little bungalow in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. On the porch a pretty matron sits serenely sewing. A man enters the gate. The woman goes to meet him, and greeting each other tenderly they go into the house arm in arm. It is Betty Horne and, naturally, the good-looking man is Joe. Then—a big office marked “Private.” A girl sits at the desk, taking dictation. Both occupants of the office seem familiar. The man? Surely I have seen his

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GERTRUDE SUDDARTH “Bobby” GRAFTON, WEST VIRGINIA Ball and Racquet Tennis Club; Hikers Club; Swimming Team; Riding Squad; VY. W.C. A. “Bobby” is one of our good-look- ing girls, and perhaps that’s the reason she gets such “scads” of let- ters from the University and other places. At first, she was distress- ingly homesick, but she’s all over that now, and we all love her dear- ly. She has a voice that is equally as charming as her personality, and altogether we are proud to have her in our Senior class. AA RUTH HERMINE WEBER “Rutchen” CLEVELAND, OHIO Rack-a-ho Club ; Club; Swimming Team; Team; Y.W.C. A. Tenms Hiking Track Isn’t she just the sweetest thing? And she’s generous and good-na- tured too. But she likes to have her fun, as you may readily see if you poke your head out of the door some night after light bell. She doesn’t neglect her studies though, or you wouldn’t find her one of the leading members of this bright (7?) class. Anyway we like Ruth just heaps, and so, they say, does Earl.

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picture before. It is the President of the United States. and his blonde secretary, Ruth Weber. The mist again films the globe and again it parts. An artist’s studio, dimly lighted, great bare walls, an open fire, soft divans, handsome men and girls in batik frocks. And in the center of it all is Max Good.ue. the artist whose latest picture, “Venus at the Pump,” has excited so much comment. He is presenting to the world his model and fiancée. Heavens! Betty Ross, the school beauty. Again the globe is emptied. I see a school catalog, and, in large letters, “The VanRenseller Military Academy. Rudolf VanRenseller, Major.” Slowly the book opens; I start. The face on the frontispiece—Doc Chittenden! | glance at the bottom—‘Mrs. VanRenseller, the school sponsor.” So she has married a mili- tary man after all. Then a large gymnasium, palms, fluttering blue and white crepe paper, an orchestra jazzing madly, uniforms everywhere, and, sitting with an elderly man on one side, a sweet-faced chaperon, Bud McKenny. Again the scenes shift. This time it is a busy doctor’s office. Patients fill the room, mostly the male of the species. White-capped nurses come and go. [ look closer at one. Surely I know this dark-haired girl. It is Kathryn Mosby. The door of the inner office opens and the Doctor steps out. It is a woman, anda handsome one at that. I am not surprised when | find that it is George Lyon. What is next? Palm Beach! A long stretch of sandy shore dotted with vari- colored parasols and crowded with bathers. | stop. Who is this stylish stout lady under the vivid orange and black parasol? She certainly seems in her element as she sips lemonade and reads. “Bobby” Suddarth, without a doubt! Then Antwerp, Belgium. But why the mobs of people? It is the month of the Olympic Games. I am before a river. Now comes the signal for the swim- ming to begin. One contestant forges ahead. On, on she goes—gaining every second. She wins! The people shout madly. I strain to see the victor. It is Virginia Hilton, the Athlete of Fairfax. The mist again closes and clears. A dinner party is in progréss. The guests are in the brightest of moods. To a radiant and starry-eyed honor guest, who, adorable in the fluffiest of evening frocks, is seated in the center of the picture, a toast is being given. She turns—Aline Berry! Mobs of people are gathered around a platform where a woman in mannish clothes orates. She is holding that vast audience in the hol’ow of her hand. I look at a poster and see, “Jeannette Beall will speak on Woman’s Rights.” The globe was magic. I know of all my classmates now. Hoping to learn of my own future, I lean closer, straining to catch but a glimpse. I grow tense waiting—watching. My fingers slacken, Crash! My prize lies in atoms at my feet. Such is the working of that elusive thing called fate.