Central High School - Centralian Yearbook (Minneapolis, MN)

Page 33 text:

K is for Kelsey, who is awful cute. He is in the orchestra and oft plays the flute. L is for Lyman, whose honest thru and thru, When e’er you need a nickel he’ll give it to you. M is for Murray, on his mind he has a load. But when anything happens he’s ready to explode. N is for nobody, we’re thankful to say. When we want to skip whose in the way. O is for Ora, a bright young lass, When a boy speaks to her she gives him lots of sass. P is for Perrin, with good looks so fine. He gets double plus by casting out nines. Q is for Quincy, of mathematical fame, In history and other studies he’s made quite a name. R is for Rendall, who always says hist! When anyone comes up his aisle and looks like Edith Christe. S is for Salzer, the G room dandy. When you want the style, why, he’s the candy. T is for Travis, a bright young lad, If he don’t cut out studying he’ll go to the bad. U is for Ueland, who came from the south. When he gets called to the desk, gets hot at the mouth. V is for Vera, who writes only books. She gets through school just on her good looks. W is for Williams, a boy that’s emphatic, He speaks in a way that’s very fanatic. X is for Algebra, this study George does love, Of all other studies, he thinks this is above. Y is for Youths and maidens galore, Any mischievous one, Miss Butler does abhor. Z is for Zero, of which we get many. But next term we promise, not to get any. GEORGE TRUE. Siddall it is who presides o'er 11 room And spends most of her time deciding your doom. Our hearts grow cold as at the death knell When we hear the ring of the infernal bell. Page thiny three

Page 32 text:

The trees that once were gay with the beautiful leaves now showed black against the gray sky. The flowers were all gone and the few snow sparrows that were hopping about in search of food looked cold and lonesome. The squirrels were sleeping in their nests and everything was cold and dreary. The brook was frozen and covered with snow. The wind, that once was gentle, now blew with force and swung the great branches so that they moaned as if in pain. These walks which so impressed themselves upon my mind were taken but two short months apart and reminded me of those lines of Bryant: To him who in the love of nature holds communion with her visible forms she speaks A various language. HATTIE NAUMANN. “J” Room Alphabet is for Anderson, who’ll soon make her mark. If in algebra she don’t stop being such a shark. B is for Blood; with knowledge to give, But all that he’s got would go thru a sieve. C is for Charles, a studious creature. Who has aspirations to be a great teacher. D is for David, a quaint little fellow. With eyes so blue and hair so yellow. E is for Emelie, who is a queer little miss. Who would n’t even whisper if she thought it amiss. F is for Forsythe, with talents so grand, She can play Cheer up, Mary, with only one hand. G is for George, in class always late, His getting on the best side of teacher is the work of fate. H is for Harold, who’s crazy over bow ties; Sometimes he tells the truth and sometimes he tells lies. I is for Inez, who speaks so low and sweet. She reminds one of Irving in being so neat. J is for Jewell our elecutionist. Who goes through her motions with a snap of the wrist. Page thirty-lwo

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A Dream Y! How I hate to play on such instruments! No matter how carefully I tune up that 'E' string it always snaps at ’D? sharp!’’ I exclaimed one dreary day, If it is true that a good workman never quarrels with his tools, then I certainly am a poor one. I wish it were one of those rare instruments they have been finding lately. After these and other uncomplimentary remarks I straightened out my music stand and leaned the offending violincello against it and sat down in a chair to look over some magazines. On one of the periodicals 1 noticed a beautiful colored engraving of a tall man, dressed in the style of over a century ago, holding under his arm a violin. It was of a portrait recently discovered which was said to be of the famous violinist, Giovan Maggini. I also noticed that the article said that the fiddle in the portrait had been recovered but another was still at large. He must have been an excellent teacher, thought I, I wish he were here to teach me. After reading the article thru 1 fell into a sort of reverie. Suddenly a low but clear musical voice filled the room. I am here, it said. I faced about, and there in the gathering gloom, where my music stand had stood, was a man closely resembling the gentleman in the engraving. He was holding the violin in the same position, but there was also my ’cello leaning against him. What! you are not really Giovan Maggini, the music master of Italy? I asked in wonder. I have that exquisite honor, he replied with a strong Italian accent. O, won’t you play something? I implored. With pleasure, if it please you, he politely answered. Suiting the words, he played the Faust Potpourri by Gounod. Play something from the Bohemian Girl, I said. Ah! You mean the Potpourri of the great Balfe? With pleasure will I. After he had finished Balfe’s masterpiece I asked him to play Cavalleria Rusticana on the ’cello. Signor Maggini Pag thirty-four