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

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below. The deadly blackness is no more; the mists are sunken to the depths below. A cheer colossal again reaches us from the throng beneath; they are marching triumphant towards the heights; they are coming in victory to the far Above—and a banner bearing Excelsior leads them on. They seem to be coming from the gates of a wondrous and mighty hall, of towering turrets and of white marble, a magnificent and glistening portal of shining jewels and precious metals. A path of stone as white as marble is before them, and leads them upwards, ever upwards. And a great cheer, a mighty chorus, breaks from us as they march. Oh, my brother! Oh, my sister! Come! They hurry forward; they run, they race! A rally magnificent, a last supreme struggle, a crashing cheer —and they are upon us! “Excelsior! Excelsior! Excelsior!” we cry to the heavens. “Excelsior! Ex- celsior! Excelsior! thunders back. The mists, the tempests, and the darkness are gone. Excelsior! And then all is The voices are hushed. Through the elements above flashes a ray of brilliant light! and everything is wondrous in its serene beauty. quiet. The clouds have parted, the skies are over us, The radiant glow brightens, and dazzling brilliance floods the world and shines over all. The white doves wing their course in th e far Above, and happiness is upon them. Everything is quiet in the new light of knowl- edge, all is reverently hushed. Our hands join in fra- ternity; the new vision draws our faces to the heavens above, and we gaze! Ah! and then we see, we know, we understand—and are gloriously happy! The vision holds us, the wonderlight leads us, and we glimpse at last into the beauty of the Infinite. And ‘tis then that with mighty volume and overtones of harmony, with majestic and wondrous cadence, we raise our voices and sing—and upwards to the distant skies is wafted our song beautiful. Last Will of the Class of January 1918 Before we leave the beloved scholastic circle of the Central High School for the broader highway of life we, the class of January, 1918, do solemnly be- queath the following pleasures and sorrows to those we leave behind at that worthy institution: To our successors, the 4B's, we leave those first six rooms in the auditorium, where, in huddled silence, we whispered shocking criticisms on ambitious morning haranguers. To them we modestly leave the continuance of the publication of this magazine that they may uphold its generous offering, with the hope that they may ac- knowledge truthfully their unfitness and inefficiency when it comes to editing as fine a number as this one. To them also we solemnly bequeath those splendid camps, or home rooms, as you may call them. ‘That “one-hundred-and-one ranch they may have, and may it be to them a place of refuge, holding them in check at 9 o'clock, and keeping them spellbound at 3 o'clock, the hour of liberty. That spacious room, one hundred and ten, the place of awe and solemnity, we leave to them, our suc- cessors. To the Juniors we leave the new Seniors, our would-be contemporaries, who will act as legal guides and chaperones in all Junior undertakings, who will be brothers, sisters and fathers to the ingenuous Juniors, and who will watch their every action with contempt and disgust. To the Sophomores we leave nothing but hope. We trust that they have sufficient power and skill to offset the desire of their upper classmates to overrun them. We hope for the best. For the One Bees, we pray. We should like to disregard them entirely. They are not fit subjects for consideration by magnificent Seniors. They cannot yet understand. We would that they return to their cares and hovels, and brood over their ignorance and folly. We leave them, then, with nothing but the expectation of their due chastisement. Poor fiends! To the Faculty we have much to leave in ap- preciation. We cannot forget their guiding care, their kindness, and their interest in all of us. They have taken our ignorance and our carelessness all in good will, and with a mind to forgiveness. For this we thank them. We leave them nought but words of praise and reverence. We are proud to have been their pupils, knowing we have had the best of in- struction. To Principal Wiener we wish to tender our most sincere grief on having to depart from Central High School. For four years (yes, and more for some of us), for four long years, we have come daily to these familiar walls. Perhaps none better than we know what a great friend he has been to Central, and to the cause of education as a whole. He can never be thanked enough for the personal interest he has shown in our behalf. He has trusted us and he has taught us the lesson of self-control, of self-guidance. When, in after life, we become citizens highly hon- ored, and our community becomes proud of us, we will look back and say, as did Lincoln, “To Pro- fessor Wiener, Principal and Father of the Central High School, we owe our success.” To Miss Martin we bequeath our utmost thanks (Continued on page 38)

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tures, Samuel Grubin and Stephen Nowinski, I leave $250,000 each, as a token of my esteem. “To Robert Housman, faithful butler and verbal battler, I bequeath $5,000; Harold Merz, my gar- rulous gardener, and guarder of my gardens, I leave $5,000; Philip Mintz, foreman of my hot-air plant, for bringing it to such a wonderful state of perfection, $22.37; Ed Fink, who grew to be a groom in my employ, and Theodore Augenstein, expert stable boy, $599 each. “To Ruth Benz, cook of cooks, I leave $10,000, and to Minnie Gelfand, cooker of cookies, the same sum. “To my faithful maids, Eleanor Beckelman, Hazel Harmer and Emma Alexander, who were also in charge of my Welfare Work for Handsome Police- men, I leave $10,000 each. “To Walter Prosch and Samuel Kappner, my showy chauffeurs, I leave $5,000 and a Ford apiece. “To William Bachman and Charles Breder I be- queath the sum of $72 for the continuance of their work on a perpetual motion machine. I believe this money to be especially well placed, as these men have, in twenty years of work, obtained wonderful results, such as having the machine run continuously for one hour and thirty-eight minutes; and there is no doubt but that even better results may be obtained in the next twenty years. “To Susan Gelman and Grace Hedden, who have starred for many years in ‘Uncle Jake's Delicatessen,’ I bequeath all my jewelry, to be equally divided be- tween them, in an amicable manner. “To Laura Lewandorf and Claire Howard, of the ‘Coconut Cove’ chorus, I leave $25,000, and a 'Backard' limousine each. “To Ethel Hamburger and Johanna Lauterwasser, co-authors of ‘Suffrage: Why It Should,’ I leave $2.13, to be equally divided. “To Iva Sleep, inventor of the folding ‘napsack,’ I bequeath my books on ‘Slumber,’ by Drema Weigh. As an excellent executor, after my exit, I express my desire to name Leopold Lallone, the macaroni manufacturer, whose ability in money matters is well known. History of Nineteen Eighteen By H. NoRMAN COLLIER As the fading sun sinks wearily to meet the long. gray hills of the west, and the deep, soft gloam of twilight gently falls and enfolds the noble portals of our alma mater; as Time in his flight hurries onward into the future, and leaves us finally to ourselves in high and solemn assemblage, then, and only then, gather we together, that at last, after all is accom- plished and done, we may peer through the mist into the unknown and silent future. But, lo! What is this that happens about us? What means this change, this sudden darkness of the night? The mists are rolling and tossing; there is neither Heaven above nor Earth beneath! The twi- light is darkness, the veil draws closer unto itself — and lifts not! And, lo! The tossing mists part and roll aside. Far down below a vague throng is bat- tling upwards through a golden light. They seem young and fearless, and murmurs of their struggles ascend towards us from far below. They battle nearer and nearer; upwards, always upwards do they struggle! On! Comrades, on! We cheer them from above. And on—on they come. A mist of darkness black as the night passes before them, and they are gone from our sight. “Come! Comrades, come! we cheer them in a mighty chorus. And again do the mists part from themselves, again the throng is coming nearer, and a pale light guides them 9 They are toiling ever upwards, their faces set and Yes, they dance and sing, some here, some there. And a banner bearing Sophomore leads them on. They are coming now together, slower and slower, and again the black mists below close about them, and there is darkness! In the beyond the tempests are softly dron- ing; in the far distance the heavens moan, and are “Upwards! Comrades, upwards! we cry again. And, lo! the mists are flung aside, and a com- pany marches forth into the light. Again they battle upwards towards the top—towards the Above, their faces hard and grim. And, ah! through the spaces they are seen dancing! A festal thought clears their faces of their woe, and they laugh and sing in aban- don. And as they dance and sing, a banner bearing Junior floats o'er them. And then the tempests, with the suddenness of the lightning, burst forth into fury, the mists spin in madness, and darkness is supreme. The far, faint cries from the Below reach us but dimly, and we tremble. Up! my brothers! Up! my sisters! Up!—up to the heights above! And behold! As though crushed by an unseen hand, as though smitten by a power invincible, the tempests, the mists, the darkness subside—and are gone! Up! my brother! Up! my sister! we cry again. “Up! Come up to us! And a mighty shout drifts from on. stern, and yet they seem to frolic and to play. quiet.

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In the Studio Bv Rosert Housman GASKAE, Italy, Dec. 2. Early this afternoon the friends of Guiliano Cartele, an American black art master, who fool- ishly decided to sleep over night in the haunted Castle De Morte in spite of his friends’ repeated warnings, was found dead in the studio. heart was the only bruise on the body. I am too much the master of that Ha! it I may be able Bah! Pouf! game to believe any such nonsense. seems Greek Fire to me is second nature. Tis really a joke. A healthy man like Antonio! But he is sensitive; he has been painting too hard lately; how hard I tied my laces this morning! And such a beau- tiful place! What unique wainscoting! And that armor! The Count must surely have gazed on these walls with pride. What a noise that shoe made! Sounds are greatly exaggerated in a room as large as this. Wax tapers always have a gloomy effect. | must not forget to have some tapers in my act when I get back. These shadows are exquisite for effect. Now—how soft the cover of this canopied bed is; let me draw it back with care. I do so honor the unique. Poof! Out goes one. Poof! And here goes the last light. Now—-how soft and downy this feels; exquisite; and a Count's bed. Ah, I dote on unique things and——apparitions—ha! ha!—appari- tions—ha | —— to show those ghosts a trick or two. super- Hah!— have been dreaming; 'tis dark here; yes, it is dark; that old Count —I wonder what ails me? I must be getting soft; what?——yes, something—er— could some poor burglar—I am going to light—I must light—a taper—a taper— Jesu! I cannot move—my God Antonio Salvator — Help! The deceased man was found with his hand tightly clutched over his heart. A blue mark on the chest over the Mother of God, I cry, but without sound—they can- not hear—nor help. It must be dawning; a light has entered the sky- light—that cannot be—there is no skvlight—whence comes the light? and how ghostly—blue—gray— heavy—it is growing—filing the place with the hell- ish glow What is that—in the corner? Is—that armor—moving? God!— yes! What a hollow clank—the visor is ris ing— tis a fire-eyed death- head. It is coming toward me. What shall I do? My pistol—beneath my pillow—a little closer—at the head -nay, at the chest—at both- -thing of hades hades !—there—bump, bump, three sickening bumps the lead drops to the floor—it—it—nearer—nearer— my brain is rising—nearer—away! Away—it grows taller—taller—at the foot—of the bed— those eyes those eves— and how my eyes smart—they alone can move; they are stealing from my head. It is beside me— the helmet drops lower and lower—those green they are green flames—of hell lamps—no, green flames, tall, devouring— Ah, I know now—they are the phosporous flames of Hell. I cannot see, but I feel—the iron hand is moving—I must close my eyes towards my heart—I cannot—away—away- My breast—ah-h-h cold—very cold stop—stop those eyes—that hand— Almighty God— my heart my hear—MY HEART!—MY-—-GOD. Class Song of January ’Eighteen By RoBERT HOUSMAN Central, fairer than the fairest, Treasured as the maid of Troy! Crowning thee with glowing halo, Rise the thoughts of days of joy! As thy flag by breeze full-bosomed Flutters proudly o'er thy head, So shall we, moved by thy mem'ry, Show our pride in days long sped. CHORUS Farewell, dear Central, not goodbye; Though life unfolds anew, Thy white reminds of purer lives, Thy blue bids us be true. Faster fly the magic moments On the whispering wings of time; In our hearts, now faster throbbing, Mingle joy and pain sublime. And so January, Eighteen, leaves thee, As of fleeting years we tell; But Central, our Alma Mater, In our hearts will always dwell. [CHoRus.]