Central High School - Central Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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Page Sis Clas :Poem Our school life lies behind; its happy hours, Are buried in the dim and distant past; And memory brings us now naught but the flowers, Of those four years that sped away so fast. Yet turn we for a lingering look tonight, To that dear Past’s departed pleasures bright. We see, as now we take a backward view, A bright September morn, whose balmy air, And grasses sparkling with the undried dew, Speak parting Summer’s message everywhere. We see old Central’s portals open wait, To greet the coming class of nineteen-eight. We see ourselves as trembling Freshmen stand, To know our fortune in that ample hall; We feel again that sense of foreign land; That sense of strangeness, loneliness, and all: As, looking up with dazed, affrighted frown, We saw the upper classmen looking down. We see those rooms like catacombs of old, That puzzled with their non-adjacency; We vainly strive to seek the numbers told; With scornful, Sophomore-like complacency, We strive to enter every class room door, And “make our levels” on the proper floor. But memory forever will hold dear, And give an honored page in her great book, That bitter-sweet, that studious Freshman year; Yes, in our hearts it has its sacred nook. The thorny green must e’re surround the rose, Before its fragrant petals shall unclose. A year has passed; and now, as Sophomores proud, We go to rooms assigned without a guide; What privilege to Freshmen not allowed, Shall from henceforth be ours! Fond, foolish pride,— For, looking up with smile instead of frown, We find the upper classmen still look down. But there are compensations: Freshmen now, Look up to us, as we were kings of men, And on the street the Juniors almost bow, (Disdainfully, and look away again!) And lessons do not seem such awful bores, And bluff is tried and oftentimes it scores! And so this year goes on. Societies Begin to come our way, and contests, too. We’re learning now what High School really is, Its meaning, and its spirit, brave and true. Exams and tests concern us more and more, That we have good reports when they are o’er. In sports we take a growing active part: We even have our players on the team. If Central loses, we lose hope and heart; When Central wins, with joyousness we beam; Though we have not yet perfect bliss attained, As Sophs, a worthy measure we have gained. And yet again old Central’s doors swing wide, Upon a glorious morn in early fall; We feel a new, a glowing sense of pride, As Juniors, entering the well-known hall. And with half kind and half disdainful frown, We join the upper classmen looking down.

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8 J$lotor=poat ftace ilmpromptu This incident occurred last summer at the St Clair Flats. I may mention here that this part of the country is ideally situated for the use of all kinds of launches, inasmuch as there are hundreds of miles of waterways, widely dispersed in direction, but in no place out of landsight. Notwithstanding this, it is not an uncommon occurrence for boats to get lost in some of the complex channels and passages. Among the many rival boat owners up there, one of them, a friend of mine, was very talkative, nay, even boastful concerning the merits of his boat. It might be argued that he had good cause to think well of it for in the numerous brushes between the “Arab’' and the local boats, he had been a constant winner. But to him that vaunts, there always comes a day of reckoning. On account of his excessive talking, every man on the river who owned a fast one,, was “laying for him” and was keen for a chance to “show him up.” At last the opportunity came. It was on the occasion of a short run to Algonac. Smith, one of the prominent men of the town and a boat builder by profession, had just finished a six-cylinder racer of new design for one of his Detroit customers. He was testing it out with a few short runs when my friend, not suspecting anything, passed him. Smith advanced his throttle to the three-quarter position. The engine responded beautifully, bringing him within twenty meters of the other boat. My friend was unmistakably worried as was evidenced by the fact that he turned his boat three points to the starboard, heading directly for the gas-buoy at the head of Russel Island. Smith, however, was not to be shaken off. He likewise changed his course. The sight of these two annihilators of distance, their polished nickel parts scintillating with the rays of the rising sun, their engines running with chronometer precision,—the syncopation produced by the cadence of their even, unmuffled exhausts,—the field of green water upon which they were maneuvering,—its background of tree-studded islands,—made an impression upon me never to be forgotten. To resume our story, the “Arab” seeing that it was being slowly overtaken, now turned completely around, doubling on its course, heading for Algonac. Smith, putting his helm hard over, hung on like a bulldog. In turning at a sharp angle with the line of direction,, at a speed close to eighteen knots an hour, his boat listed so much that a considerable amount of water was shipped. In spite of this she steadied up, and in full view of an interested crowd on the White Star Line dock, the “Six,” with a terrific burst of speed, shot way past the “Arab,” slowed down, and tied up at its mooring. Van R. Schermerhorn, ’o8. Page Five

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One-half our course, two precious years, we’ve passed: Before us stretch two precious twelve months more: We’ll strive to make them better than the last, To learn more than we’ve ever learned before: We’ll study hard and all the time! but lo, What games and parties, — surely, we must go! The Psi Omega, Beta Kappa, too, Greek, Glee and Shakespeare clubs now take our time! Class meetings, well enough while something new, And Junior poems, (rhythm, thought, sublime) ! And books exchanged for many a midnight dream, When we’ve been “out to help support the team,—” Then Physics, with its note book once a week, And other Junior joys unqualified! And Cicero, and William Tell, and Greek, And many a text to English work allied! So long as memory holds our School life dear, We'll think with joy of this our Junior year. And now three years are gone, and we again Upon a fair September morning bright, As Seniors, honored of the world of men, Return to dear old Central with delight. And now with pitying smile, not scornful frown, We are the upper classmen looking down! How eagerly we follow Virgil’s trials, And give to French and Greek our utmost thought! We learn of intersected spheres, with smiles, Absorb all Physiology we’re taught. We store our minds with German, Botany, Grow wise in lore of Ancient History. We hear “When do you speak?” a sad refrain, And sadder still, we hear in answer, groans. Class dues and club dues come and come again, Demanding every pocket piece one owns, Class meetings with their long and tedious hours, Debating contests, just to show our powers. The Senior dance,—a grand affair, indeed; Our disappointment that we can’t have more: And games with other schools,—fair fame, their meed, Our joy when dear old Central manes the score And at the last, our state of hurried cram, For that most telling, final dread exam. O, these four years, how sweet each one has been, Since first we blithely entered Central’s hall! The honors that we’ve striven hard to win, Our triumphs and our failures, one and all! For every day, though joy or grief it brought, Has in its fullness, some sweet lesson taught. And to the principal and teachers dear, Through whose kind labors we have reached this day. And to the parents whose best hope is here, A debt we owe which we can ne’er repay. But gratitude and love to them we give, We’ll try their teachings in our lives to live. We feel a pang of sadness as we part. From kind, dear friends we’ve known these four short years, Great aims and hopes cannot console the heart Nor stop the flow of severed friendship’s tears; Yet as we turn from this sweet past tonight, We see the distant future, shining bright. Harriet A. Ives, '08. Page Seven