Central High School - Cog N Pen Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

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Max's Central Service training came in handy, any- way. At Niagara, I viewed the famous horse-shoe falls Írom the power station. And, would you believe it, there I saw Frances Hiebel enjoying a belated but pleasant honeymoon. From Niagara to New York was a pleasant trip. mainly because Harry D`Giovanni was conductor oÍ the train. | reached New York in time for supper and after wards went to see the Passing Show of 1947. Ir the vestibule ticket office was Abe Slominger, now a famous theatrical knew his well, for in the course of the evening I saw he had selected as his stars Florence Walling, Loretta Sie- fried and Margery Witheridge, who were making a great hit in spite of their some show, believe your Daddy Time. manager. | le business age. [t was After a pleasant evening, I wended my way toward Newark, via the Tubes. The strong arm gang were on duty: the two inseparable chums, Rose and Harriet, with pails and scrub brushes, were doing their duty to a soiled window. Newark reached at last, I hopped into a jitney operated by Sam Horrowitz. When I got off at my street, I handed him a quarter. He gave me thirty cents change. Fine figuring, Sam, fine figuring, I thought. About to enter my home, I was stopped by two ladies, whom I recognized as the Misses Howard and Heid. Both were old maids, and from their talk I gathered that they were running a dairy somewhere near Hackettstown, N. I W | asked my wife to entertain these ladies as best she could, and retired early, to dream of old times at Central. THE CENTRAL SERVICE CLUB | үт b 4.

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was followed by Fannie Weiss and Sophie Dwork with Votes for Women” signs across their chests. At the London stock market | saw Stew Веа!- tie, not the runner of yore, but a bank runner. It had long been my desire to see the famous Monte Carlo, so I crossed the channel and took a train for the city where fortunes are won and lost in an hour. Just as I expected, there in a corner of a large gam- bling den sat Jake Horowitz and Jules Lubowitt matching nickels. This was a game in which they had long been proficient, so I was not surprised. I went next to see the wonderful sights of “Сау Paree. I knew no French so I went directly to the American consul for advice. He was Freddy Nava- tier, sure enough. Through him I learned a few words of French and received some directions for getting around. I entered the first high-class cabaret I saw, on the Rue Jardin, where, among the revelers, I was just in time to see Prof. Joseph Kiell and his dancing partner, Emma Yates, go through a series of dances of their own invention. My business next directed me toward Germany, and I arrived in the city of Berlin at night. Early the next morning I wandered through the streets, watching the many curious sights. They were curious sights indeed. There was Ernest Kritzmacher in front of a bakery, pipe in mouth and covered from head to foot with flour. From him I learned that a symphony orchestra was in town and, liking good music, I went to see the performance, which was Niemand Zu Hause. The curtain went up at eight o'clock and Pasquale Sozio, the world's most famous violinist, appeared, amid great applause. A selection. from Wagner followed, and after the applause had sub- sided, Mme. Tlusty sang Im Vaterland, and bou- quets were showered upon the world’s loveliest soprano. The wee hours of morning came rapidly, but before I went to bed, I visited the Berlin six-day race. Riding around the saucer were the following teams: Salerno and Primamore, Greenspan and Chivian, Friedman and Hand. In the middle of the saucer, behind a hot-dog stand, was Issy Steinbock, barking out his wares, while his partner, Sarah Seiler, was giving first aid to what appeared to be the remains of Goldberg and Campbell. They had been attacked with stones and bottles for ruining the Ger- man opera, Romany, I think. 'The pair had traveled these thirty years on their nerve, attempting finally to enter grand opera, but the gallery boys didn't appreciate their attempt. Another day in the land of Karl Marx, I visited the Temple of Socialism, which now ruled the world. There on the walls of the famous art galleries were the portraits of. Abe Breitbarth and our old-time editor, Eddie Douglas. Poor Eddie! Many 12 were the days he had spent in the rat hole in Cen- tral High, but now he is in a hole six feet under, long dead of spats disease. Oh yes, and there was Harry Schaub, as well—not the Harry of years gone by, but the Harry of a new era, dressed in overalls, with a pail of water and a scrub brush, busily washing the picture of Eddie, thinking of the many happy days they had spent together. Little had ke realized that the picture in front of him would survive THE Pivot of January, 1917. Italy I visited next, where Rome revealed the strange sight of Cardinale, an Italian duke, feeding pigeons in the market place, while his wife, the former Alice Filippone, was keeping the younger Cardinales from pulling the feathers from the pigeons’ tails. Wil liam Heyer, the man of elevated ideas, who used to push the artist’s brush for THE Pivot, I saw pushing a different kind of brush around the streets of Rome, and on investigation, I found that he had to have it made to order. The first stop I made after leaving Italy was at the islands in the southern Pacific, where we landed in the afternoon. Before evening set in, I roamed into a grove of large bamboo trees. I had taken about four steps, when all of a sudden a cocoanut grazed my upper extremity. Upon looking up into the tree, I beheld the features of Alan Bolles, not so much like the Bolles of '17 as like one of our Darwinian ancestors. Evidently Bolles had ‘read so much of the theory that he was degenerating very rapidly. A small ribbon was tied around his neck and I imagined it was to keep in mind the one for whom he had worked so hard thirty years ago. A new version of Yaaka Hula Hickey Dula” was the first sound brought to my ears, and there in a straw tent I recognized Eleanor Floyd going through the rhythmic motions of a Hawaiian dancer. A private steam yacht brought me to the land о! the free once more, and the Golden Gate appeared in the distance. Back on American soil, and under the protection of Old Glory, I visited the janitor of the San Francisco City Hall, Saul Goldstein, who introduced his wife, formerly Fannie Abramson. My next stop was at Chicago, and in the State Assembly was Harry Polak— not the Harry of old. but a revised man, stalwart and honest, and a staunch upholder of the honor of the class of January, 1917. While in Chicago I renewed the acquaintance of Wilbur Henderson, who had hoped to be a civil engineer, but who was running a trolley car and trying to be civil in replying to the questions asked when not surveying the nickel industry. Oh, yes! There was Max Greenberg also. Poor Max, gray haired and looking the worse from rough work, was greasing the switches for the street railway company of that town.

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James Warren Gibbs аз a Poet The following poems are from the uncollected writ- ings of the late James Warren Gibbs, whose memory is so fondly cherished by all Centralites who were so fortunate as to know him. “To Arms was pub- lished in The American Issue, with which Mr. Gibbs was connected, while the fragments and Who Can Ве Great? are from his unpublished writings. While Mr. Gibbs left some poetry, he will be better remem- bered for his historical writings, the latest of which went to press just before his death last summer, and which is expected to appear at any time—4 Manual of American History and Civics, (Atkinson, Mentzer Co., New York). This is the same one which he developed at Central, and which is in use here now. FAINT HEART BE STRONG Up, then, nor fear! Gird on thy sword for battle with the wrong! This is thy battlefield forever here— To him who conquers is the victor's song. WHO CAN BE GREAT? A second of time is a little thing, But two eternities to it cling. A speck in space floats this world of man, Y et holds what a place in God's great plan! Though I may not be great, I can be small, And God needs little things most of all. And who is great? Not he whose boast Makes a nation shudder from coast to coast. Who then is great? Not he whose name Is gilded over with golden fame. These may be great; but it must be he Who walks by faith where he cannot see; Who does life's duty as he can With God-like faith in the heart of man. TO ARMS! The cry goes forth like thunder-peal— TO ARMS! Gird quick thine armor on! The foe is worthy of thy steel, His ranks stand thick and strong. “То arms again! Thy broad, fair land Which stands for freedom's mighty power, Betrayed by traitor's kiss and hand, Yields silently each hour. Firm blades of heroes bathed in blood, Firm hearts of heroes staunch and true, Against the strength of wrong have stood When blades and hearts were few. The cry goes forth for men— strong men— Men who no longer dream, but DO! Rings Eastern tower, rings Western glen With cries for me, for you. A man may die that a nation live, A nation its life for a world may give.