Aquinas Institute - Arete Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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A tThcr Tretc Class of 1926 ARDLY have we become acclimated to our new and beautiful surroundings, when it becomes necessary for us to perform one of the unpleasant duties of school life—to say “Vale” to you who are about to pass from our midst. Still, this should not be a disagreeable function, since our labors during the past four years have pointed toward this very event. During these years we have striven to prepare you for the more serious duties and responsibilities which are found outside the schoolroom; to so equip you, mentally and morally, that we might send you forth with confidence in your power to succeed. Your training is now over; life with its numberless opportunities invites you. The desire to withhold you from that very role for which we have prepared and inspired you would be, not only thoughtless, but heartless. It is not, therefore, with sorrow or regret that we address you words of farewell greeting. With joy and gratitude that you are ready for the work which lies before you, we say: Set out, proceed prosperously and reign! The Faculty. twenty-four

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A TThc Irerte WHELEHAN, GEORGE B. 4110 Lake Avenue “Stretch Holy Cross School Charlotte is well represented by George. His dazzling ties and socks add much to his reputation. Stretch was a big success as an usher at the basketball games. In all school activities, he stood out, or up from the crowd. He often springs a new joke and is always smiling. It is also rumored that he studies. WINKLER, JOSEPH J. 453 Augustine St. “Joe St. Francis de Sales School Utica Joe’s brilliant head piece is not the only notorious feature of this young man. He is a zealous scholar and his accomplishment along musical lines threatens the supremacy of Fritz Kreisler. He is a member of the famed Virgil class, which is of course a mark of distinction in itself. Here’s to you, O flaming youth! WOERNER, DONALD E. 68 Merriman St. “Don St. Francis’ School Don is a serious-minded individual. He enters seriously into everything he undertakes. It has even been reported that he takes books home at night. His genius is directed chiefly along mathematical lines and we all expect him to startle the world some day by his achievements in mechanical enginering. YAWMAN, PHILIP H. “Phil 2290 East Ave. Nazareth Hall Although encumbered by numerous social duties, a carefree nature and a Chandler, Phil manages to make a very creditable record as a student. Not demonstrative, he is far from being quiet. A few minutes with Phil dispels the worst case of blues. R. P. I. is to be congratulated on this unit of next year’s freshman class. twenty-three

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Me anb €nb HROUGH this fertile land, broad streams wind their way on to the mighty sea. Numerous specks, cruising along faster than the current, are boats constructed by men. Here we have one of these streams. Over near the bank floats a small boat, manned by a young, slouching figure. That fellow, holding his boat close to shore, sails now rapidly, now slowly, yet he ever keeps his gaze on the grandeur of the passing scenery. All his attention concentrated on the beauty of the shore, he does not notice one oar slip from its holder, nor does he realize that a jagged rock has pierced a small hole in the bottom of his boat. Slowly he sails on, and now the other oar sinks into the river’s bosom. The current rushes faster, the eddies force tiny streams of water through the small hole. An abrupt stop brings the gazer to the realization of his perilous condition. He makes frantic efforts to reach land, but all prove fruitless. The water gradually climbs the boat’s sides; the vast sea opens just ahead. The imperilled boatman sails swiftly into this watery expanse. The whipping waves crash against the frail, unoared boat, breaking it into pieces. The wrecked boatman looks to heaven in despair, he gasps and the water closes over him. He dies beneath the swirling surface. There, in the midst of the stream sails a small, sturdy craft, floated by a man, young and erect. He floats down the middle of the winding stream, rowing evenly, sailing always onward with the swift current. His eyes, looking on down the stream, watch for winding curves and sharp turns. The brilliant colors of summer flowers never divert his steadfast vision. With strong arm he pulls the rugged oars, forcing his vessel down the middle course. He swerves to avoid a straggling weed or a sharp rock. Fastei and faster, the current rushes him on. Now, his eyes are looking at the leaping waves of the sea. The happy boatman steers out into the immense extent of surging water; he looks up at the clear blue sky, then stretches his nets to reap a plentiful harvest of flapping fish. A very simple tale of a stream and two boatmen, but see how closely it resembles the eternal story of existence and human lives. Everywhere on the high road, on the lonely path—in this great sphere, men, living in the transient existence, are the creatures that an infinite God made from nothing. There is that acquaintance of yours, a tender youth, just beginning life’s great voyage. He is sailing, even now, on to its end. That youth enters a worthless crowd, a collection of loafing sinners. He sinks into contented ease, he steeps himself in mundane goods. On and on he goes seeking, searching out fleeting, meaningless pleasures. He bends his every feeble effort to seize the sickening fruit of sensuality. But his weakened mind doesn’t realize the shortness of life, nor does his distracted vision see the awful loss of natural virtues. One by one they slip from the man turned animal. Drowsy eyes see not sickness extending grasping hands. Those thin fingers seize his scrawny throat, and then, his eyes suddenly widen. He tries to push back each evil habit, but every one stands firm, a mighty, sneering giant. His drunken senses relax; he appeals to them in twenty-five