Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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the others leave for school, heard the last bell ring, and then settled down with a sigh of content. “But what is that I smell? Hot muffins and fried ham, I’ll bet. I’m hungry, too.” “Mother,” he called, “I’m hungry. Please bring me something to eat.” Soon mother came in, bearing a tray which she placed within Billy’s reach. The tray contained a glass of milk and a plate upon which was a single slice of toast. “But, Mother,” cried the boy, “I want a real breakfast—hot muffins and the rest, like I eat every morning.” “Oh, no,” replied mother. “I don’t want your stomach upset now of all times.” The toast and milk speedily disappeared and mother took the tray away. Billy read on for a short time until the clock struck ten. “Ten o’clock,” sighed the little boy. “Now they are all lining up for the match and soon questions will be going back and forth at a great rate. Any- way, I won’t be there to fail.” At eleven he breathed a sigh of relief and ventured to get up and dress himself; the match was probably over. When Mrs. Blake saw her small son coming downstairs she said, “Oh, Billy, are you better, dear? I’m so glad. Sit right down here by the fire and if you stay in all day I guess you’ll be all right tomorrow.” “Oh, isn’t this an easy life,” thought Billy, when suddenly the tele- phone rang and Mrs. Blake, after listening an instant called, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Anderson, but Billy isn’t well today and I don’t think it would wise to allow him to attend the party. Thank you just the same. Yes. Good-bye.” “Mother—Mother, what is it?” cried Billy in consternation. “Of course I can go to the party.” “No, dear. The party is this afternoon and I couldn’t think of letting you go where you would eat things which might bring back those ter- rible pains.” Poor Billy, with visions of the fancy cakes, candies and ice cream that he might have had, sat heavily down, resolving next time to locate his pain in another part of his body. ELINOR E. HANNA, ’22. Page Twelve

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BILLY’S MISTAKE NE—two—three—four—five—six—seven! sounded the grand- father clock, and presently from the kitchen mother called: “Billy—oh, Billy—it’s time you were up!” Billy turned over and sleepily rubbed his big blue eyes, feeling the need of some sort of a prop with wrhich to make them stay open. “Say, what day is this?” he asked himself. “What dreadful event is going to happen today?” The sight of his school books, reposing on his desk chair, and particularly that of a large geography book, served to refresh his memory. “Oh—the geography match,” he exclaimed. “Oh, how I wish I didn’t have to go to school. Well—I won’t go, that’s all. But, oh dear, mother won’t let me stay home just because Miss Clark is going to give a geography quiz. She won’t ever let me stay home unless I’m sick. Well, I’ll be sick today.” “Billy, are you up? I want you to go to the store before school. Billy, answer me!” There was no answer from above. So presently steps were heard ascending the stairs. The door was opened and mother stood amazed on the threshold. “Why, Billy, you’re not even up—and just the morning when I needed you, too.” “Oh, oh,” groaned Billy, tossing from one side to the other of his little white bed, “I’m so sick I don’t know what to do.” “Why, what is the matter? Why didn’t you call me? Do you feel very sick? Where is the pain?” Thus mother queried as she stroked the curly head. Poor Billy attempted to answer, but not knowing just how to pro- ceed, renewed his groaning and moaning. “Well,” said mother, “I guess you need a good dose of castor oil. Then if you’re not better, we’ll send for the doctor.” “Ugh,” thought Billy, “Castor oil! Anyway, that’s lots better than a geography match.” After the medicine had been administered, mother left him in order to prepare breakfast for the other members of her family. Then Billy very slyly crawled out of bed and tiptoed over to his desk, from which he took a large story book entitled “Pirates at Sea.” Next, he crawled back into bed and proceeded to enjoy himself with his book. He heard Page Eleven

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L’ALLEGRO—A la Mode To hear the clock begin its stroke And ringing, startle the poor bloke Who slumbering on his cot doth lie, Vainly regretting dawn is nigh. To rouse him from his dreams, bedight With mem’ries of the preceding night. Then to besiege the bathroom door, Resolved to enter it before His fellow sufferers gleefully gain The coveted goal and there remain, Unmindful of those impatient without To pamper or lave or tackle about With keen edged Gillette or Durham or Gem. A cup and a roll, and quickly then To the B. R. T., with its rush and roar, With a prayer in his heart that ’twill soon be o’er. His journey’s course he needs must stand With teeming crowds on every hand. Now here’s a maid demure and shy; Across the throng he casts his eye. And there’s a maid with manner bold Who fain his wand’ring glance would hold. Adown the canyons dark and deep, To his special niche in the cliffside steep, With lagging step, he makes his way, Himself, unmarked, in the busy fray. The dreary day drags to its close And night comes on. ’Tis then he knows The festive world will grant his need In pleasure gay or sportive deed. Then to the gaudy stage, anon If Ziegfeld’s Beauties’ socks be on, Or Griffith’s feature huge and grand, Hold forth at Capitol or Strand. Then to assuage the itching feet, Accompanied by maid petite, With one-step, toddle, walk or trot, Or other form of bally rot. He thus his nightly round doth make Till the fleeting hours demand he take His weary way unto his cot To await the stroke, his usual lot. With apologies to Milton, E. K. B„ ’22. Page Thirteen