Plainfield High School - Milestone Yearbook (Plainfield, NJ)

Page 9 text:

THE ORACLE | Valedictory Address KATHARINE HOLT. Classmates: ° In one of the most successful and most charming of recent plays,— “Dear Brutus”—is told the story of ‘a magic wood. If anyone wanders in this forest, he is given an opportunity to live his life as he might have wished to live it if he had been offered a second chance. We, who are leay- ing our four years here, are going out with every opportunity of making our lives what we choose, but to none of us will come the privilege of entering the magic wood. We must first, then, convince ourselves that our gleams are indeed the ones which we want to follow, and then we must work tirelessly and fearlessly for the fulfillment of our ambition. “Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, Atter it, follow it, Follow the gleam.”

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Salutatory THE ORACLE Address SYDNEY W. ANGLEMAN. superintendent, principzl, and faculty, to At this graduation time, amid re- membrances of the happy past and visions of the waiting future, we should remember not only the acade- mic side of our school life but also all those who have worked so faith- fully to make our graduation pos- sible. It is fitting that at this last meeting of our class we should greet those many friends and helpers. So, to all members of our educational body, the administrative board, our our new friend of this evening, who will start us on our way with words of encouragement and help, and to the citizens of Plainfield, whose interest and co-operation have been such a factor in the past four years, the Class of 1919 extends its warmest greeting.

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8 THE ORACLE His Just Reward (As told by Sydney Angleman—Honorable Mention, Babcock Prize.) A creak, a glow of the setting sun of autumn, the sound of a falling latch, and someone entered. In the dim half-light of the store, the figure was barely discernible to the men seated around the fire in the back. And yet they could sense an intangible something which had come through the momentarily opened door, a feeling as of two unseen conflicting forces. An air of constraint seized the men in the gathering as the arrival came slowly into the arc of the fire- light. They saw a young man of about twenty-three, clean-shaven, clad in a rather flashy autumn suit of the latest city cut and style, with a rather care-free expression, which spoke, although silently, the word money, as clearly as though a giant had roared it forth from the top of the mountain. The overalled, thick-whiskered man next to the stove stirred uneasily; His companion on the left whispered softly to him, “He’s the feller up to the big new house on Double Top Mountain, Jim. He’s one of them there city vacation bums.” Jim Ranford was the postmaster and the keeper of the general store at Mendon, a small village in the high western part of the Catskills. No one who knew Jim ever forgot him, whether they had known him as of old times, when he was “alwus a smilin’ and cheerful,” as old Mrs. Knight put it, or during the last three or four years, when he never smiled, but stared, always stared at you with hunted look. Suddenly, the stranger dropped his careless attitude, stood straight and firm, his gaze fixedly set on a service flag on the wall by the stove. His hand came up and saluted with the precision which is a characteristic of the trained army man alone. Jim’s voice broke the stillness. “Why'd you do that?” he asked. “Why did I do that?” replied the young man, “I’ve made a vow to salute every gold star since—.” Here he stopped and looked again at the flag. ‘But the star’s only half gold,” he added, glancing questioningly at Jim. “Only half gold,” Jim repeated dully, “only half gold, and he was only half soldier. It’s fer Jim, Jim Ranford, Jr. He waited for the draft, and then he hated to go at that. He got across, but we never knew what become of him. ‘hey—they say,” he pointed to the men around him, “they say he deserted and was shot.” A change came in Jim’s face. ‘“You’re all damn liars,” he cried with the anger of despair. Then softly, “Poor Jim, War, too.” and me in the Spanish “Jim—Jim Ranford, the stranger whispered. Then, triumphantly, ‘Yes,