Waltham High School - Mirror Yearbook (Waltham, MA)

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THE MIRROR 11 gressed--friend Eunice sauntered over to my desk, draped a trim, silk- stockinged nether extremity over the corner thereof, and informed me that the city editor wished to see me. Interviews with that Great Mo- gul, the city editor, are a rarity and an occasion to remember. I say a rarity, because he is generally closeted with his very private secre- tary, Dorothy Dart, with the In conferencew sign on the door. And I say an occasion to remem- ber, because the last time he wished to see men, it was to give me a dif- ficult assignment. Even the city editor himself admitted it was diffi- cult. Well, sir, it was difHcult. Seems that somehow or other, two pugnaciously-inclined prize-fighters, Ralph Nelson and Ludwig Mossberg, had been indulging in an altercation as to who was to take Helen Byam, the chorus lady who put Bemis on the map, to the Penny Arcade. The affair had all the earmarks of termi- nating in a rugged catch-as-catch-can back-woodsman style of combat un- til the question of purse arose. Neither cauliflower-eared leather- pusher would consent to co nmit may- hem on the person of his brother traydesman 'till a sufficient stipend should be advanced to remunerate the belligerent for such sundry abra- sions as he should chance to receive. 'Well, affairs were taking on peace- ful aspects once more, and the town police force, John Cassidy, was jack- ing up a wilted trouser leg prepara- tory to leaving the scene, when some misguided philanthropist-I've a sneaking suspicion it was Herbert Bailey, the Mauling lylethodist, and a one-round pugilist of note, laid a bank-note on the side-walk. It was upon the resultant mob scene that I was supposed to report. I've often wondered who got the other part of the five spot. Bly half is no good. I see I have digressed once more. Pardon it, I beg of you. Let's see-I was supposed to see the city editor, wasn't I? Well, as I rapped, albeit a bit timidly on the sacred portals, Dorothy-I still call her Dorothy-blushingly removed the deceitful In conference sign, and bade me enter. Like all good editors, Mr. Farley -for of course it could be no other- ignored my entrance for a few mo- ments, to allow me time to become- as he fondly thought I would-a bit nervous, as some reporters do. You know the way they are-timid, bash- ful, and all that. I wasn't nervous a bit, just a little curious and afraid of being assigned to cover another mob scene. After I had cleared my throat a few times, sort of suggesting in a gentle way that I was there, Jarvis wheeled around in his padded swivel chair and regarded me with friendly eyes. I don't like people looking at me in that kindly, patronizing fash- ion. I resent it. Do you believe in life after death ? .Iarve is like that-always bursting out with some unexpected, unanswerable conundrum. Now it happens that I do believe in' life after death, most firmly. All my folks have, from way back. But it seemed hard to tell Jarve, A-b- un-er-H c'That's what I thought. fstill in that kindly, patronizing tonej Now, Horack, get this-, I want an edi- torial on the life after death ques- tion. Life after death , he repeated patiently, as tho' talking to an in- fant. Life after death. Good day. .Iarve is like that. Abrupt. To- the-point. Clapping my last year's Fedora to its common seat, I left the newspa- per oH3ces. Editorial writing! My big chance had come! Why, when

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10 THE MIRROR have decided not to bequeath those brains, but to retain them for future use. On the other hand, we do leave the hard-boiled attitude of the senior class to its successors. They will need it in their bouts with Milton and Virgil. Knowing the need in 'Waltham High School of text-books on the sub- ject,'we leave to the junior class a -carefully edited volume of the his- tory of Lincoln, Massachusetts, in- cluded in its pages to be the-hour for icurfew, the last train back to Wal- tham, and the walking distance in case the train leaves early. Last of all, we leave the junior class most optimistic hopes for a new school. After thus remembering those we leave behind, we can only say, God save the Commonwealth of Massa- chusetts! y In witness whereof we have set our hand and seal this fifteenth day of June, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and twenty- eight. JEAN HUGIJES, '28. Class Prophecy May I .open-inaugurate, so to speak-my little offering in a news- paper office? And in Indiana? Of course, I understand that such pro- cedure is a bit out of the ordinary. 'The stock setting for all worth- while prophecies is either in one's breakfast-room., on the public high- way, or in the lobby of some second- class hotel. However, I hope la di- gression may prove acceptable, and, anyway, I've always had a penchant for newspaper offices: they're so ro- mantic-and Indiana is the state that so heartily rallied 'round the G. O. P. banner by endorsing Hoover. So, with your kind permission and leni- ent, forbearing attention, 'tis in a newspaper office in an Indiana small town that my story opens. I was sitting at my desk .in the northwest-by-west corner of the ten- by-eight editorial room, endeavoring to render into readable literature an arid account of a recent funeral. After an hour of unremitting per- spiration, during which aqueous pe- riod I had completely inundated the desk top and the heterogeneous col- lection of unaccepted literary gems thereupon, I had finally reached the part 'where I disclose to the reader the identity of the corpse's sister on his father's side, when my old--not literally, of course-friend and lit-- erary advisor, Eunice 0,C!air, am- bled over to my desk. Eunice, incidentally and by the way, holds the only sinecure of the otherwise well-managed establish-- ment. She, ladies and gentlemen, tri- umphantly executes the arduous du-- ties of society editor! Grasp it, class- mates, grasp it if you can-'society editor on a penny scandal sheet in a town of eleven hundred misguided souls! Society editor! VV ith Eunice's kind permission, I' will regale you with a choice extract from her Society Items column: Little Miss Marjorie Webber, charming offspring of the recent Fiske-Webber union, cut her first bi-A cuspid this morning. Congratula- tions, Doris and Donald! Well, as I was saying, ere I de-

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12 THE MIRROR my life after death editorial was im- mortalized in print, I would be fa- mous. Big newspaper syndicates from Waverley and Roberts would bid for my services-Iid be rich, rich and famous. But first to get some material on the subject in question. Being a gentleman of extremely high intellectual qualities, I didn't immediately rush pell-mell to the library. No, not me. I sat down on a convenient car track and viewed the situation calmly. Life-after death. That has to do with spiritualism, spiritualism with religiong religion with a minister. Of course! Seek out a minister! Norman Wright'5 palatial resi- dence was just across the street, so I heaved myself to my feet, prepar- atory to dashing over to Normis in quest of ecclesiastical assistance and perhaps a glass of Norm's home brewed cherry cordial. That's as far as I got. I glimpsed, almost on top of me, and about to sit heavily upon me, the gigantic behemothically-propor- tioned lines of a common street car. I had just reached as far as-- down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul- when It happened. As in a dream I heard hurried, ex- cited voices. Then a blank. Then in another dream, I felt a tape meas- ure being drawn tightly about my chest, and being extended from my forehead to my largest pedal digit. lNIutterings of Hard pine. Plush lining. Bronze handles. Sad, very sad, but good business. I was in the ruthless hands of a certain tow-headed, bespectacled lad who had always averredhe would get me. He did. For a few years after my death I ghosted about the world, flitting to and fro and hither and yon, concern- ing myself chiefly with Europe and Asia, South America, Alaska, Au- stralia, and the South Sea Islands- particularly the latter. Honestly, itis fun being a ghost. A real honest-to-goodness dyed-in-the-wool ghost that has spooked about for a few years or so soon learns how to spirit himself about, from hither to yon and back again. ' He learns how to walk thru, walls, to rap on tables, and to put over all those ghostly ac- complishments at which the average mortal scoffs. By talking with a few casual ghost acquaintances I learned that we dead folks had to amuse ourselves somehow for a few thousand years or so 'til Judgment Day, when all the ghosts and spooks and shades and what-not will rally 'round Saint Peter to be assigned our last homes- heavenly or otherwise. Nell, as I was saying, I ghosted around Europe and Asia for a few years after my funeral-which was, by the way, the best I ever attended- and learned the knack of walking thru' doors and walls, and rocking tables, and all that sort of lore that every accomplished, self-respecting ghost should know. Then one day-I remember I was attending an opera in Paris-I -felt the urge to return to the place of my nativity. I had sickened of all things foreign, I was homesick. Europe had palled, and Waltham called. Suiting action to thought, I spirited myself to the Home of the Waltham Watch. Waltham had thrived during- and not because of-my absence. In place of our antiquated, venerable alma mater stood a modern, ten- storied brown stone-fronted architect- ural triumph covering approximate- ly thirty acres of Massachusetts soil.