Central High School - Centralian Yearbook (Kansas City, MO)

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SEN IOR OFFICERS President Robert Mehorna.v. Treasurer—Mayme Roberts. Gift Giver—Dudley Monk Vico President—Iva Thomas. Sergeant—Bonita PettIJohn. Prophet—Eugenia'Gilbreath. Secretary—Raymond Mills. Critic—Homer Berger. Historian—Helen Clark.

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CONCERNING “WILL OF THE MILL” At a turn in the road on a mountain steep Up sat a mill as if wakened from sleep While at its side ran a swift river deep. Down went the river as if to a rally; Down went the carriages, down to the valley. The miller’s nephew, a scholarly lad, For human faces a great fancy had— Which made him by nature pensive and sad. Down went his spirits to the foot of the mountains; Down went his thoughts to the cities bright fountains. At the death of his uncle, Will built here an inn From which no one left but spoke well of him; But Will was not happy as he should have been. Down still with the travelers went the poor boy’s heart longing, Down still went his thoughts, as he bade them good morning. To the inn one day a fat young man went Who said. “The stars readied, you would ne’er be content Which proves to live one way each creature was meant.” Up, up swim the fish from the sea. Up, up at the inn contented stops he. While the parson and his daughter at the inn remained The hand of Margery Will would have claimed. But thought, “We ne’er love again that which we’ve gained.” Calmly, calmly indulging each whim Sits philosophical Will at his wayside inn. Will saw her often till another she wed. Then exclaiming, “Fickle! he shook his wise head; But he felt sad indeed when he learned she was dead. Sad, sad remained Will until one dark night Death carried him back into Margery’s sight. - Brli.R Murkav, ’08.

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‘‘AS ITHERS SEE US’ Dudley Monk, ’07. 23 AS the one event in a woman's life is her wedding day, so is the consummation of the high school pupil’s desire, his proud year of seniority. Slowly, even painfully toiling itp “ambition’s ladder,” through the realms of Freshland, Sophomoredoni, and Junioropolis, he attains the immortal kingdom of Mount Senior; there he scorns the base degrees by which he did ascend. That part of human nature which causes the poor man, suddenly rich, to become the greatest snob of all, evidences itself most clearly in the bearing of the Senior toward those “beings in the lower classes.” Most truly has it been said that “The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins remorse from power. But stay. Perchance I dwell too long upon aloofness. Perhaps it would seem that the immortal Senior lives among his kind, content with them alone. Far from it. The ver air of haughty isolation is a hollow artifice to secure the awestruck admiration of lowly dwellers in the realms below. Who has not seen the ocean liner “Senior,” haughty, silent, cruising down the Hallway Sea. ploughing up a foam of frightened freshmen, and leaving in his wake a subdued ripple of sophomore whisperings? Unconscious of his power? Nay, he exults in it with a relish born of years of tribute paid to Senior idols of yore. Is this device enough ? Enough ! It scarce begins the list. Tales of history and the crafts of biographers have made him wise as serpents. He knows that greatness stamps its own. In lieu of greatness, he brands himself. Long, in thumbed and musty volumes, he explores to find the whims and foibles of immortal men. lie has them all. His watch-word shines before him! “By their eccentricities ye shall know them. Does success attend such perfidy? Do not mortals learn in the great school of experience to shun gold-bricks and seniot affectation? Follow me. Behold yon stocky form striding past in grim resolution. Note the stojid, sphinx-like countenance set with silent determination—on dodging his daily share of Virgil. That stride only acquired after months, yes years, of walking—on stilts; that stony visage, the result of many painful applications of snow and salt; that tireless energy, the fruit of ambition; each bears the earmarks of fame; and endurance. Who? Apollo assuming, for a time, the earthly clay of—a senior. Thus it is that jointless walking and graven features are popular among the “smaller ones.” Again, observe this squad of cringing freshmen. Come nearer. Hear them converse. Why do they so mutilate and mumble their words—eliding, syncopating, jumbling, till the product rivals the efforts of a time-worn “Victor” record? Lo, the answer. The scene—Room Eight. The discussion—Francis Bacon. The speaker—He of the placid Grecian features. Listen. In what strange jargon does he discourse? In what new' tongue is he so fluent? What may be his theme? Be not disappointed! ’Tis English shattered on the fixed lips of a some-time ventriloquist. His name? Senior. Let us away. Yet stay; there come the fashionably late young ladies, the envy of every lowrer class girl who with stifled anguish, watches from her desk in class, as they sweep down the hall inseparably intertwined, calmly passing long after the rumble of many feet has “echoed” itself to silence. Note the superb indifference in their defiantly uptilted chins, the utter disregard of the “magisterial frown—and more. Ah, this is grand, this abandon; this joyous exemption from the dull, narrow laws of precedent and uniformity; this glorious setting at naught of custom. But watch. Retribution seeks its prey. An ill-directed query pierces those masks of oblivion. “State Gibbon’s limitations.” Alas, it carries consternation to the heart of previous serenity. Still, they improve. Feminine wrath, real or assumed, is a potent argument with man. He cannot discriminate. Enough. “I could such a tale unfold” as w'ould cast the Senior idol crashing to the dust. So, ye of the underworld. when the towering figures of the clan of ’07 pass, bow the head in meek submission, for though they are not what they seem, “they are all, all honorable men.”