Central High School - Central Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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Class History for a look about the building which I supposed to be empty, 1 saw twenty-four boys sitting in Room eighteen. Afternoon session fell with a heavy hand on that class of 1911.” The owl shook himself slightly and after some time continued, “But in spite of all, they came back ten months ago for the last time. Tall and dignified seniors, who knew and knew far too well that they knew. Then indeed began the busy days. Tennis tournaments, senior themes, debates, club spreads, and rhetoricals were constantly discussed. How I longed to go down and enjoy an appetizing lettuce sandwich with those who thronged the hall on the day of the sale! How too I wished that I might enter and discover the mystery of that cosy corner or the attraction in Room four at the senior dance. From conversation later, I judged the Philomatheons must have had a jolly lime at their banquet, where a salad fork so mysteriously disappear- Marie: We have a brilliant past. I wonder what our future will be?” Grant: “That’s easy—this bunch is doomed to a theatrical career.” Miriam: “We’ll start an ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ troupe and let Philip be the bloodhound.” Grant: “I '11 be Little Eva.” Marcia: “I’ll be the ice.” Miriam: ‘Order, order—let the music sound.” Violin Solo. Marie: “That’s as fascinating as the ‘Pied Piper’s’ music.” Philip: “What an opportunity for—” Marguerite: “Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats.” (Girls wildly clutch their puffs. All consult programmes.) George: “I think I sec Mr. Scher in the audience.” (He looks about inquiringly— ed, and after when they visited several dreamy places of especial interest to the boys. As the day went by they talked of the ’Philly’ dance, the Shakespeare play, the home concert and class day, and at last these are all gone, and even Commencement is over.” Slowly nodding the old owl turned with a misty look in his eyes. “But after all, they have achieved more than I predicted that bright September day, and they are going forth well fitted by this worthy school, to take up their duties in the world. With that motto forever before them, ‘Tene bene et alta pete,’ may they reach with success the highest round of the ladder of life.” The last words were almost inaudible, as the wise old head of the Belfry Owl nodded, the eyes closed, and he sank into a sweet sleep which brought him pleasant dreams of the fame and glory of the class of 1911. Grace R. Murray, 1911. points his finger at W. S.) “Will, won’t you come up and give a few parting words to the class? Last chance, you know, Will!” Will S.: (standing up as if in recitation): “Really, Mr. President, I’d like to, but I’m not prepared—as usual.” Elizabeth (with stately mein): “Behold, the jester cometh to sport before King George. HUMORIST. Philip: “Bye, bye Carus.” (Consult programmes.) Marguerite: “Welcome, Blumfield.” PIANIST. Bernice (musingly): “I wonder if Julia will play the baby-grand in heaven, instead of a harp?” Grant: “She’s a suffragette; maybe she won’t get there.”. (Consult programmes.) Marie: Shades of Mark Antony, here’s our orator!” — 26 —

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peering through the transom he finds that here too is desolation. The vigilant eyes in the oil paintings now stare only on vacancy. Mr. Freese from his dull black frame looks down with that same calm expression on the Monthly desk, tidy as usual—but alas!—no longer are the books of George Baldwin and Grant Fewsmith strewn over the top, amidst the pile of Exchanges. Where are our athletes, who usually hover around that desk in the corner? Not even Mr. Feil sits working, making out those fatal tardy slips. But he is no doubt busy in the halls. How strange it seems without Miss Thompson’s cheery “Good morning,” as she glances up over her typewriter with a pleasant smile! A sudden sound causes the owl to turn hastily, ashamed to be caught away from his abode so early in the day. He flits quickly back to the stairs and then to the tower again, pausing only long enough to hear the janitor remark, “Yes, last night was Commencement. ‘Commencement’ repeated the owl, perching again in a corner amidst the cob-webs. So that is the cause.” For a long time there is silence, at last broken by words, almost inaudible. The owl slowly muses to himself over the class of 1911. “It scarcely seems four years ago I watched them as they came up the front walk. I sized them up as usual, for who better than I knows the ways of classes that have made records in this building? They were a proud, independent looking set that bright September afternoon. If handsome faces and pretty clothes had been the steps to high scholarship, or gaiety and good humor the requirements for success, I would have vouched for that class anywhere. They had a fearful time of it that first year. Such thoughtless creatures they were. They couldn’t even remember the orders given them regarding the use of the stairways, let alone Latin rules. Day after day they were greeted at the top of the stairs by a stern faced teacher who remarked severely, “How many more times must I tell you to keep to the wall going up, and the baluster coming down? You can’t fall up the stairs.’’ They were slow to learn that they were insignificant ‘flats’ who knew not and knew that they knew not. By the discouraged looks, I judged that sum-esse-fui-futurus and sagen-sagte-gesagt were mastered with difficulty. I knew it would be hard for them” he added with an ' I-told-you-so sort of an air.’ The old owl paused, lost in thought. “But persistency ought to win success,” he continued with a nod of his wise old head, “and again in 1908 they returned to continue their efforts. Sophomores!—wise fools, who still knew not—but alas! knew not that they knew not. Bravely they labored with Caesar in building that complex structure across the Rhine, and when they reached the other side, they gladly set fire, not only to the bridge, but also to all knowledge they had of its construction. Proudly indeed did some few, whose averages had risen and passed that terrible barrier, seventy-five, wear the Psi Omega or Beta Kappa club pins. “I watched them with interest in 1909, that same happy throng, now juniors, who knew but knew not that they knew. Room sixty was then added to their programs for one hour a week, and ‘Friends, Romans and countrymen,’ although haunting them in their sleep, utterly forsook them as they stood on the platform in oratory. Pleasure-loving, they never missed an opportunity for a lark, however. What a merry crowd gathered here for the junior informal! Junior cloak rooms became witnesses of hard studying, but also of light lunches. Some had been admitted to the home of the immortals and were enjoying the pleasures of Mt. Olympus, if sight reading in Ovid might be called such. Others were sharing the benefits of the G. L. S. (originals for instance) of the Art, Shakespeare and Faraday clubs. But as I feared,” continued the wise old owl with an emphatic nod of his head, “pleasure came before study with them. One afternoon, flitting down by chance Class History — 23 —

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ORATOR. Miriam: “Wonder if Mark Antony had a Miss Bruot to train him!” (Consult programmes.) Martin: “Ah, the vocalist!” Philip (singing to the tune of “Flow Gently, bweet Afton”) : “Sing gently, sweet Sissle! (Stops himself suddenly.) VOCALIST. Miriam (sadly): “Noble’s last Central song. (Consult programmes.) (All begin, Grant starting it.) “Here Kitty, Kitty—” Class igoem (With apologies to O. W. H.) Has there any strange person got mixed in with us? If there has, take him out without making a fuss. For this is the night which belongs to the class; 'Tis the last one of fun altogether, alas! Just four years ago, in the month of September, (This is not nineteen-forty, you’ll kindly remember) Great stores of fine knowledge we thought we'd amass, And we started out boldly, this brave, fearless class. And so we assembled, to find out our doom; Our first meeting together, in this very room; Will you ever forget how we climbed all the stairs And sank down exhausted upon the front chairs? And the fall to our hope, when on coming again We took the same seats and were plainly told then: That the place for a Freshman up here, was the rear; And the looks of those Seniors stood out very clear! Still that was the least of our great load of cares: The Seniors’ disdain, and the Juniors' proud stares. Twas the name that they gave us: base Flats we were dubbed. And because of the term were right properly snubbed! The next year we came back to continue our way; No longer “fool youngens” as Riley would say; But this time we entered old Central’s big doors We entered distinguished, as wise Sophomores. Oh how haughty and proud did we stride thru the hall With that look of the Sophomore: “I know it all”; ‘Those Freshman, how tiny! If we looked like that It s no wonder they nicknamed each one of us Flat!’ And next we were Juniors; we hardly believed That so soon such an honor we’d really achieved. Clubs kept us so busy, that scarce time we had To get all our lessons, which made us so sad! Closs Poem — 27 —