Southold High School - Snuffbox Yearbook (Southold, NY)

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THE SNUFF BOX Way, way back in our good old childhood days—that is to say, four years ago—some twenty-odd (be sure you connect odd firmly with the word preceding it) Freshmen entered the portals of Southold High and diffidently stumbled up the stairs and around the corner. We were as unsophisticated as Mary’s little lamb, or to put it more forcefully, as green as grass. But according to Webster, through the medium of the huge dictionary in Study (?) Hall, green” is defined as the characteristic color of growing plants”'—and who arc we to doubt Mr. Webster? As growing plants, then, with tiny shoots just beginning to appear, we greeted this new world, but nobody seemed to realize how timid and delicate we were—except ourselves. At the end of each day, after Miss Malone’s clear , soprano voice had ordered, Girls, pick up the papers from the floor,” it was always one of us Freshies who was obliged to tote the waste-paper basket up and down the aisles. The Seniors squelched us, the Juniors ordered us around, and even the Sophomores were bossy and superior. But we held our peace, hard as it was to do so, by slyly softening the Seniors with sycophancy, jovially joshing the Juniors with jargon, and simultaneously stuffing the Sophomores with sodas. By the end of the term, we had taken two important steps in our high school career. First, we were all proudly sporting nifty pins, and secondly, at class meetings Jerome Grattan presided as President— Muriel Young being Vice-President, Nora McCaffery, Secretary, and Francis Strasser, Treasurer. The summer quickly flew by, as summers have the annoying habit of doing, but September found a fine bunch of sun-tanned Sophomores rarin’ to go. I mustn’t forget, however, that we still were young plants, growing stronger day by day. True, some of us had wilted and dropped out, but for the most part we were flourishing heartily, according to the law of the Survival of the Fittest. We had grown older and slightly— very slightly—wiser, and now we basked in the sun of the Seniors’ favor (for they were patiently awaiting a picnic). We feared only the Juniors, 30

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THE SNUFF BOX and merely tolerated the Freshmen, because we looked forward, not backward, and upward, not downward. Plunging into the social whirlpool, we soon became well known at Westhampton Beach, Kenney’s Beach, South Harbor, Nassau Point, and at Jerome’s house, and we frequently attended the movies at both Green-port and Riverhead. Once bashful, we had long since become blatant and boisterous, for we were young and not burdened with care and trouble as we are now. In June, we gave the Seniors their eagerly longed for picnic at the Sound. ’Twas a fine day for an outdoor party, but ’twas a bad day for hot-dogs, because, after sizzling by the dozen over smoldering fires on the beach, they were dressed in generous coats of mustard, snuggled into soft, fresh rolls, popped into hungry mouths, and washed down with oceans of soda. Pickles, olives, and marshmallows were in abundance, and by the time we had finished eating, our bathing suits were dry, so we merrily set out for home. Everyone always loves picnics! The members of the Class of ’31 have always loved them, they still always love them, and they will always love them. I wouldn’t for the world think of hinting, but speaking so much of picnics, when are you going to give us ours, Sophomores? It’s June now. Our third term! The plants that had once been timid and shy, now stood tall and straight on their sturdy stems and surveyed the world with interest rather than with awe. Every little breeze did not sway them hither and thither as had previously been tthe situation, but not to digress too much. At the first class meeting of our Junior year, we decided it was about time that the officers who had served us so well ever since we were Freshmen, should be relieved of their cumbersome duties. However, when a vote was taken and the results tabulated, we found that the burden of the presidency was still to remain upon Jerome Grattan’s capable shoulders, but that Miriam Whitney was to be Vice-President, Murial Young, Secretary, and Leonie Stacy, Treasurer. This choice proved an excellent one, and the same leaders were consequently retained for our last year also. We Juniors then committed a social error—parties and picnics were practically forgotten! But really, there was no place for such trivial things, as most of our time was spent in studying and in helping the Seniors earn money for their glorious adventure—the Washington trip. When that was over, we started thinking about our own excursion, soon to come, and having put a few of our plans into action, quite a tidy sum reposed before long in the class coffers. Our chief occupation was selling candy, and I hope our customers forgave us if, perhaps, we were slow in making change, for when we were not admiring our rings, which had been purchased in November, we were dreaming of the wonderful term that lay before us. At last we were Seniors! The world was at our feet, our heads were in the clouds, and our noses were tilted to a forty-five degree angle that 31