New London High School - Whaler Yearbook (New London, CT)

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bulkeley news 23 Beran became silent. I had absorbed every word he had uttered. His strange revelations had been music to my ears. His recitation had been uninterrupted—the first one I had ever known him to make. And now that he was finished, I was loathe to have him stop. “But, Beran.” I persisted, “explain yourself. At what useful pursuits have you spent all these years? What accomplishments have you a-chieved? Tell me of your own exploits.” My guest seemed reflecting. Then he said in a strange tone: “Every inhabitant of this corrupt sphere possesses the privilege cf indulging in his own private ambitions. But the graphic prolixity of Schwartzs lexicography, Sherb’s antiphlogistic and pharmaceutical faculties, Hale's pleonastical declamations, or St. Germain’s prodigious pomological accomplishments—-none of these attributed attainments have ever inveigled me into the grabbing hands of lamentable labor. The deteriorating and hydro-phobic obstacles that contravene the path of the peripatetic mendicant I have faced with nonchalance; climates so pernicious and insalubrious that orthography cannot deduce a precise elucidation thereof have been unable to produce upon my impurtable tranquility even a cursory hypochondriac tremor; aye, even would I dare to incur the vituperated animosity of a horde of filibustering viragoes. Crav-anish trepidations I have naught; I venture any attempt—but labor?— toil?—work?—NEVER!!!” Thus spake Beran. Fearing an extended tyro on labor reform and the general uselessness of work, I did not urge him further. Rather, I agreed with him, hoping that by so doing the difference of opinion would be lost in the howling blizzard. The gale was still blowing in its most furious form. For a long time we sat in the se:ni-darkness of the cabin silently listening to the storm and reflecting. Soon our weary heads fell forward, and— “Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care; The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great Nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast,—” overcame us, and for the time we were left in blissful ignorance of the past, the present—or the future. Thomas J. Cassidy.

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22 BULKELEY NEWS that Stewart was teller in the ’Steer.th National Bank. Upon hearing this, I hastened thence to congratulate him on his success, hearing in my mind a glorified version of that wise old adage. ‘ ‘Tis the little things that count As I passed through the doors of the handsome marble structure, an immovable guard blocked my way. His gaudy garments and alabaster top first made me think he was an adornment. Imagine my surprise, therefore, in recognizing the wearer of the sunset clothes as Stewart. His business is to stand at the door, tell the clerks of the bulletins as they appear down the street, and to tell people which way to go. “Due chiefly to the wonderful skill of the brain of Perkins, a revival of the ragtime rage, seriously rivaling that of thirty years ago, has been thrown upon the helpless American nation. By musical critics Perkins has been described as the greatest ragtime writer since the days of Irving Berlin and George NI. Cohan. The greatest song that he is guilty of perpetrating is known as “The Socks That Dave Mulcaliey Used to Wear.’ As the title might lead you to suspect, this masterpiece is a rag—such as used to hang on the Old Fall River Line. “Were I to take time to relate an account of Weske’s career since his schooldays, I must needs describe the seventy-six periods of his later life in which he engaged in exactly seventy-six forms of labor. When last I heard of him, he was about to start a career as a cartoonist, basing his belief of success in this line of work on the the skill with which he always drew conclusions and attention. As to his fortunes as a cartoonist I know nothing, but if he is able to draw his salary, he should consider himself a lucky artist, indeed. “Traveling about the world with Barney and Berry’s circus are our two old friends Harshowitz and Bar-atz. Professionally, they are known as the Confetti Brothers. They perform daring feats of bareback riding on the elephants who jump through hoops, play leap-frog, and do other stunts requiring the most skillful a-bilitv. On the road our two friends take care of the horses and ponies, an occupation they learned at Bulkeley. “The reckless ease with which Baxter used to take prizes in 'athletic e-vents made him feel certain that he could take pictures just as easily. So certain was he of success as a photographer, that I was inclined to be skeptical, for I never could see how a man so positive could make a good negative. But Ned carefully kept behind the camera and thus forced success upon him. “Only one more person is doomed to enter my story. That person is Bronstein. Long before he graduated his future vocation was plainly evident to all his friends. From his habitual practice of being at the foot we all knew that some day would see Bronstein carefully cutting his career as a cheropidist. “Now you have heard of all the fellows. Many of them have risen to the high esteem of the rest of the world. But one and all look back with unbounded joy to the happiest, the most delightful, the most useful period of our lives—our four veers at old Bulkeley.”

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24 BULKELKY NEWS Prophecy on Prophet. IX years had passe cl since I graduated from old Bulkeley with as IKkSSJ! ne a bunch °f fellows as ever left the school. I was sitting one afternoon in my private library, quietly smoking, and recalling to my memory pleasing incidents of my High School days. While I was thus enjoying myself, the portals which hung over the entrance to the library parted, and one of my servants stepped into the room. “Pardon, Sir, but there is a gentleman at the door who wishes to see you, Sir. Says he is the Income Tax Collector, Sir-” sajd he. “Is that so, James. Come to collect my 3 per cent. I suppose. Well, show him in. Might as well get him out of the way as soon as possible,” I answered. While awaiting the entrance cf the Collector, I busied myself with a book. Having become interested in my reading, I did not look up immediately upon my visitor’s entrance. After a few minutes, I turned my attention from my book to my visiter. Instantly I was struck by a familiarity with the man who stood patiently awaiting my pleasure. There was something familiar in the man’s face. I surveyed him from head to foot in a single glance. He was a medium sized man, with thin and hagard features, as though he had not found life all rosy. But still I could not place the man, although I felt sure I knew him. Having transacted my business with the Collectcr, he was about to leave the room. Half way to the door, the man stopped, and turned around. “Pardon me, Mr. Gaffney,” said he, “but don’t you remember me?” I confessed to the man that I had been trying vainly to place him in my mind, and then asked him his name. “My name’s Cassidy------- In an instant, I knew that face. The man was Tom Cassidy, a member of the Class of 1914 of Bulkeley School. A second later I had gripped his hand in a hearty welcome, and had thrown him bodily into one of the large leather chairs which a-dorned the library. “Why in Blazes didn’t you say so before?” I demanded. “Cut that out, Tom; I’m ‘Joe’ to my friends.” “Well, you see, Joe,” he cci tinned, “I dare not get too familiar with anyone on this job. You see I cannot tell how they are going to take it. Even a member of the old class might give me the cold shoulder if he had risen to your position in the world.” I told him I did not think that probable, and in a very few minutes, had convinced him that that was certainly not the case in this instance. After we had talked over the old e-vents at Bulkeley, we turned to business topics. I learned that he had become an income tax collector about