Westfield State University - Tekoa Yearbook (Westfield, MA)

Page 28 text:

Article XII. — To Mr. Sawyier, a dictagraph to preserve his Spagettysburg address given at the beginning of each spend-man-ship recitation. Article XIII. — To Mr. Winslow, a personally autographed life-sized picture of Old Man Campbell to place before him when eating some of Mrs. Winslow ' s home-made soup. Article XIV. — To Miss Abrams, television apparatus to check up on absent students. Article XV. — To Miss St. Claire, a manual for future reference and to assist Seniors to decipher Dr. Russell ' s notes. Article XVI. — To Mrs. Loker, a can of Campbell ' s soup in recognition of service rendered in providing sustenance for starving commuters. Article XVII. — To the Freshman Class we leave the inscrutable sphinx-like calm of the Seniors when reading report cards. Article XVIII. — To the Junior Class, one pound of Chinese tea for the social hour with Mrs. Winslow on every Monday and Friday afternoons. Article XIX. — Ruth Thompson leaves to Annie Donald her far-reaching arm with which to ring the bell in study hall. Article XX. — Ellen Shea bequeaths to Gertrude Cady her spirit of good fellowship. Article XXI. — Edna Johnson leaves to her successor as treasurer of the Student Council her ability to collect extra nickels. Article XXII. — Mac McDonald leaves to Babe Manning her power to soothe the faculty with humorous impersonations. The Class of 1931. Witnesses : — Elizabeth McDonald Ethel Olesak Dorothy T. Miller Corinne W. Mitchell 28

Page 30 text:

CLASS PROPHECY What could be so rare as a day in June with the world before you? What to do on this holiday was the next decision to make. Suddenly I felt an urge to renew my acquaintance with my old classmates of twenty years ago. Pressing a button, I had my Harveris canopus whiz around to my front door. This was a 1948 commercialized model, meteoritic, brake-equipped, guaranteed to travel toward Zenith or Nadir at the sizzling speed of thirty miles per second. I jumped into my asbestos suit and careened recklessly toward Celestial Avenue. Suddenly a crash made me throw the anchor into the air. Going astern to see what had happened, I saw that a similar sky-craft, piloted by Marian Agan, had crashed into the end of my craft. I found she was using pressure to sell tickets for the inter-planet game of sky-polo. When I learned that many of my former classmates would be present at this contest, I purchased a ticket. As I neared the scene of action, an air-traffic officer giggled a tri-treble note at me, which I learned much to my dismay meant: Go ahead! It was none other than Jo Balick, who, at last, had commercialized her giggle: Treble 1 — To left; Treble 2— To right; Treble 3— Ahead. I found a parking place and anchored, only to have a two-dollar fee collected by Eddie Johnson, who had lost none of her adeptness in collecting money. Stretching before me was the eight-mile playing area, which was roped off. The speedy milk-white Pegasuses ridden by the Crean All Stars were in line ready to battle the Kuczynski Crack Xavierites who were riding coal-black Pegasuses. These fine winged steeds were the handsome products of Florence Smith ' s stables on the planet Xavier. Training my linescope on the players, I felt a thrill of pride, for I recognized on both teams several of the Westfield Normal School stars. Let me see. There was Lydia Kasewurm, beside her Florence Lownds and Connie Mitchell ; on the other team Jean Provost and Rose Ominsky , as speedy as ever. A blare of trumpets drew my attention to a draped stand at the farther end of the field. It seemed that the new inter-planet Pharix, Ruth Thompson, was arriving. Her recent marriage to the Pharaoh of the Bayon-ette Realm had en- titled her to this high rank. Kay Werner, a page, volunteered this bit of news. Since the air polo was to continue for a week, I waited to see only the first breathless quarter, and then off I whizzed. As I piloted old Harveris canopus back into space, I realized that the collision had harmed the engine, for she was unmanageable. Within a few seconds I found I could no longer steer and down- ward she plunged and with a splash entered the great Aquatic Regions. I thanked the gods that service had perfected modes of travel beneath the sea. As I was passing an oceanic elevator, a hand was placed on my shoulder. Turn- ing I saw Ruth Field beckoning me into the elevator which she piloted. She told me that I must not fail to stop one and a half miles down to see the Lorelei dancing chorus. This I did and was amazed to see before me, arrayed as stunning sirens, our own Ellen Shea, Jean Valentine, Clarice McGowan, and Mary Linehan. A solo sung by Esther Bartlett told me that Esther had still retained the charming quality of her voice. A clear bird-like trill made me look toward the right, and there on a rock sat Rose Mihalek, whistling. The Volatile Vigoroso, under the capable leadership of Bessie Smith, was snappy music. Peg Hayes was play- ing the first Glissando and Ethel Olesak was blo wing on the watercress wheezer. Tearing myself away from the joyous scene, I wandered on. My attention was caught by a building, which I found to be a school. Imagine my surprise when, peeking in, I saw that two of the teachers were my old classmates, Al Kingsley and Vim Mallory. As I was about to enter, I met Grace Knox coming out the door. She explained that she was school nurse for the Aquatic District. I had tea 30