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

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SENIORS

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IBulkeleyAnn 19 25 Class ‘Prophecy PROSPERITY! No other word in ten letters, meaning success could better lit the members of the class of '25, on this, the fifteenth anniversary of their exodus from old Bulkeley. Indeed, as our “Yellow Cab guided by the dexterous right hand of Oliver Cooper, wormed its way through the thronged streets of New London, we experienced a sensation not unlike the one that is credited to the notorious Rip Van Winkle. New London had changed, children changed, and with whose aid ?—The CLASS OF 1925. Safely resting fifty stories above the din of traffic, in the glorious edifice that Pete Allanach had erected on the site of the old Mohican, in honor of his sons fifteenth birthday, we waited impatiently for Johnnie Allen to lock up the Mohican Market, (his own bv the way.) and review with us over a bottle of Cliquot the fate that had befallen our various classmates. “ 1 o think, I mused, as I looked out over vast canons filled with surging traffic, “that this is New London. Another moment and good old Johnnie, unchanged by even a hair, was in our midst, and D’Elia, too, slightly rounded out, and a trifle bald to be sure, but our D’Elia, nevertheless. Yes, proprietor of a tonsorial parlor you know. V hy the building fairly trembled as we danced around with joy, and clutched at the tattered copy of the “Annual” that I had produced from my valise! My God, to think that that little fellow in the front row of the Freshman Class picture, the one we used to call “Essie, was now Dr. Eshenfelder, world s authority on phsychoanalysis; and Fernie—well, who hasn't gasped at “Herbert Fern’s Follies, second of course, only to “Ed. Ilenkle's Irish Revue. O! Yes, more than one member of our class had on his way to fame behind the footlights. Socol and Harris, the highest paid song and dance team in the country! Can you beat it? And there, as big as life, was Henry Wickstrom. Ever since that dark day when the Fisher’s Island Tragedy” claimed Tuttle, Wickstrom and Shanklin in its deadly toll, the town has never been the same. Our sighs were rashly dispersed by the unannounced arrival of Sam Win-ram, who in some way or another had learned of our presence in town. Night and day jazz pounding in a cabaret was beginning to leave its mark on Sam, but his horse-laugh rang true as of old. Nothing would please him but that we don our hard-boiled shirts and attend the evening performance of his cabaret. Could we resist? Nine o clock found us at the head of the house. 15