Waltham High School - Mirror Yearbook (Waltham, MA)

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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.

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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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THE MIRROR 13 It was while visiting some of our old fiends-friends, I mean-the faculty, that I first heard of the Re- union Dance for the Class of 1928. I overheard Mildred Sibley, newly installed professoress of the King's English, telling Stuart Dexter Qwho by the Way, expects to graduate al- most any year nowj that practically the entire Class of 1928 expected to attend. One of the features of the function, Mildred told Stuart, 'was that all the classmates would appear clothed in the habiliments of their professions. For instance,ia painter would wear his paint clothes, a work- man his workclothes, an undertaker his under-and so on. Being aloyal classmate, even tho' not concrete or material, I resolved to attend the function. i Dk bk P24 Ski The evening of the Reunion was warm and moonlit-just such an evening as we enjoyed at the last Senior Dance. Nuttings-Qstillj-on- the-Charles-River-Bank scintillated with diamond-like splendor from the light of a myriad borrowed Chinese lanterns. The syncofpatant, tantaliz- ing strains ofrso-called music pro- duced by Wesley Lanrinfs Super- Special Six Orchestra. CPianist- Ronald Burkes, cornet --Nathan Kaplan, clarinet-Edwin Pratt, sax and flute-Ellery Clark,.harmonica- fan! Noonan, and drums-Pat Ryan. I pluralize drums because Pat',, forgetting the dynamo in- cased in his hawser-like bicepts ruins on the average, six drums per nightj. This group of symphonians is famed from Mattapan to South Boston- inclusively. They owe a lot to Patls enthusiastic drumming. As I say, Wesley's orchestra was there to do its noblest or expire try- ing. Lanterns illuminated the elab- orately-bedecked hall. All was per- fect. But who wants to dance with a ghost? The affair was gayly gala. The weirdest of costumes mingled and blended, hesitatingly at first, and then with added assurance, with the ministerial robes of the pulpit, with barristers' conservative greys, and with the radical hues of the dandy. As I have remarked elsewhere, everyone appeared in the dress of his chosen vocation. Painters wore their paint clothes, workmen their work clothes, and so on. But even so, I firmly believe that Paul Wentwortli was carrying the thing too far when he appeared clad in a suit of pink and green striped B. V. D's. Forgetting that my corporial con- struction would not permit it, I asked Marion Evans, who was tastefully attired in a billowing pair of gym bloomers-and a middy, of course- for the first dance. In reply to my soundless petition, !Marion rudely walked through me, into the arms of a hoe-common garden variety. The hoe was Frederick Butler, and that was Fredls way of informing his classmates that the breeding, raising, and propagation of yellow horse-shoe violets was his life work. I was a bit surprised, and, I con- fess, a bit more frightened, when 7 beheld a weird-looking monkey wrench with appendages-namely, one head, two arms, and a pair of pedal extremities-dashing madly about over the floor. Knowing Lloyd Cail'.r' failing as I' do, however, I realized that the harmless lad only intended to tell his fellow mates that the adjustment of faulty Chevrolet Carburetors filled his faznily coffers.. The three Lincolnites--need. I name them ?-Eva Johanson, Mary Maeffsfeill, and Caroline Seeekts, wore principally a look that was lean. hungry, and expectant, that look, you know, that is so common among cho-