Classical High School - Caduceus Yearbook (Providence, RI)

Page 10 text:

Students debate the validity of daily tests, final exams, and proper dress. They discuss the similar- ities between Plato and Rousseau, the differences between adenosine-triphosphate and ribonucleic acid, the last disappointing football game, and the upcoming meetings of the Dramatics Club. All this you remember. Friend meets friend near the messengers, desk . . . behind, a poster advertising the next school dance, an announcement about the Cum Laude stu- dents, and a warning about the hazards of smoking. The mimeograph machine revolves monotonously and in the guidance office a telephone rings, you can hear it all the way down to Room 5R. Outside, the trucks are warming up, and a new machine comes to dig up a new road. The rooms are cold, but some students are fortunate enough to be seated near the radiator, an ancient grimy silver pipe that runs along the side of the room. The day ends. The students gather their books from their lockers, and trudge towards the new Shopper's Mall. They pass by the deserted stores, whose dusty glass windows reveal a view of nothing.

Page 12 text:

They pass the old Capitol Hotel, its doors and windows boarded up, and the rusting sign still over the sidewalk. A penetrating damp and musty odor emanates from the place. But the hungry machines will come to devour that too. The students pass a shriveled old man with a big cigar, and a Woman who drags her left foot behind her. The echo of what once was new, and now is old, resounds through the modern lVlusak -filled mall planted with evergreen trees in illuminated pots. The stu- dents converge at the bus stop opposite the bank. The revolving clock tells them how much time has passed away, and below is the temperature spelled out in little yellow electric lights. An ofhcer stands in the middle of the street directing traffic. Classical stands nearly emptyg an occasional stu- dent rushes from a late club meeting, or from a session with a teacher. There are no more bells now. The iron gates on Pond Street are closed. Lights dim and go out on the first floor corridor. Janitors inspect the rooms, draw down the shades, empty the baskets. All this you remember.