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Page 33 text:
Prophecy of 1923 Pity me, readers, if this prophecy is worthy of the least bit of praise — spare it; do not praise me — pity me, my nerve-racked body and my agonized soul. I tried all manner of oriental drink and demoniac incense trying to coax my tired brain to relax into a fitful or fantastical mood so that I could be able to relate to the Class of ’23 that which future has in store for them. I called on Future herself and her elusive accomplices to aid me in my delicate task. I practiced demonorality in the belief that the all important “Book of Fortune” would open its golden pages to me and give my worried brain peace and quiet. But that drink, that horrible burning incense which I smoked in such staggering quantities only made me more frantic and made my brain more inactive. My calls on Future, my time spent waiting on that magic book were all in vain. I felt dis- couraged, I was helpless in my plight, the incense was sickening in its heavy fumes, the drink had deadened my brain, 1 fell into a deep slumber accompanied by a fretful, horrible and dread- ful dream. Ah, what a dream! What cold and inexpressible terror? May God never visit any poor mortal with such an unendurable, agonizing, hysterical, phantasy as that which visited me that never to be forgotten night. I awoke with utter horror, my sluggish blood seemed frozen in my veins, my morbid brain, despite the heavy ordor of incense was, thorough- ly clear but in a state of complete inactivity due to my agony and fright. Cold perspiration, which to my numb, stricken senses felt like great drops of red blood, was upon my brow, but the muscles of my arms refused to respond when I asked them to move and wipe it off. I was dumbfounded, terrified — cold chills which felt more like cold-chisels chased up and down my spinal column in deathly frenzy. My heart thumped with sledge-hammer blows which echoed in the awful silence of my chamber, against my ribs. But the dream — I’ll tell it to you in the fewest words possible as it brings back to my mind more vividly than ever those maddening recollections. I dreamed that I had died; the immediate cause, whether sickness, accident, or what not, I do not remember. Neither do I recollect the final destination of this cursed and desolate soul of mine. My first recognition of my whereabouts was that I was in a grave — a still, cold, clammy, and silent grave. My casket or wooden overcoat had returned to the “dust from whence it came.” But strange to say, my shroud and other apparel was
Page 32 text:
Alice Lowman wills her habit of being tardy to Martha Der- rick. Lillian Pack wills her gentle, Puritan nature to Evelyn Worley. Daisy Nelson wills her love for all things christened “Henry” to Vera Groseclose. Gertrude Jennings wills her spontaneous giggle to Conway Smith. Dorothy Jameson wills her brains to Howard Gilmer. Minnie Cannaday wills her “specks” and rosy cheeks to Virginia Roberts. Fourth: To the members of the faculty we will the following: To Mr. Brugh, our sincere appreciation of his kind advice and inspiring influence during the past year. To Miss Thomas, our gratitude and thanks for her most helpful aid all through our four years of high school. Also, a class that will love her almost as much as we do, not quite, though, for it couldn’t be found. To Mr. Eckman, the respect and love of each individual member of the Class of ’23. We also will to him a French class that will study regularly all irregular verbs assigned by him. To Miss Finks, an English class that does not believe brevity to be the soul of wit. To Miss Chaffin, a Geometry class that can put a figure on the board in less than forty-five minutes and “stand up” when reciting. To Miss Watts, a Latin class that does not kick at too long or too short lessons. Also, a smaller Virgil class. In testimony whereof, we have written and signed and do declare this paper this the 23rd day of May to be our last will and testament. Minnie Cannaday, ’23, Testator.
Page 34 text:
intact — the same as it was when I was placed in my last intend- ed resting place. This surprised me and I reached up to scratch my head as was my custom during life, but to my utter astonish- ment and even greater surprise my hand came in contact with a perfectly bald head — entirely devoid ot hair in any shape, form or size. My head was perfectly slick and shiny. Upon exam- ining closer I found the carcasses of a multitude of little under- ground beetles, bugs, etc. Oh, what a horrible death was theirs! I was indirectly a murderer — they had to traverse my slippery cranium and had slipped, fallen, and crushed against the bare rocks, thereby breaking their necks and crushing their bodies into a nearly indistinguishable mass. 1 began to examine myself and my surroundings more closely to see if any more such calamities had taken place. I found the rest of myself intact; yes, I could even trace the luminous trails of the snails, slugs and other crawling beings over my body. Ugh, I shudder now at the thought of those cold-blooded, crawling, miniature monsters. Then Death, that cold and creepy thing, that comes when no one knows when, that parter of a miser and his hoard, that ex- tinguisher of brilliant careers, that unmerciful demon, which takes father, mother, brother or sister away from those who love them so well, that cure for all hurts and diseases, that welcome guest of the oppressed, reached out her long clam-like talons and began to entangle me! — enshroud me, yea, to en- fold me! Though I despairingly struggled to escape those clammy, snaky coils, she only laughed at a mere helpless mortal fighting a losing fight against her invincible charms, Soft, but horrible music, seemed to get more distinct as I sank down — down — down into those fathomless depths of unconsciousness On regaining consciousness I was more terrified and palsied with fear and fright than ever before! Oh, why did not Death retain me in her blood-stained jaws, why did she, with that derisive mockery, cast me into this place — this place of torment? Oh, God! I was in — a school room. As time and space do not permit I will not attempt to describe this place of torture in detail, nor its many improvements and inventions of torment. A history class was in session, a red-headed teacher of small stature strangely bringing back remembrances of my own school days, was perched on the desk expatiating at length on history in general, and asking questions right and left. Interested in the date, I looked for a calendar. There were many of these — big, little, great and small — arranged in no partic- ular manner on the wall. The date was 2056. The teacher was talking rapidly and impressively. “Now, boys and girls, sit up straight, put away your playthings, and give me every bit of your attention.”
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