Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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DAY DREAMS Sometimes when English class seems slow I slouch down in my seat, quite low. My head upon my hand I lean, And then I start to dream and dream. Ofttimes I am Elaine, the fair With eyes of blue—and golden hair, And oh, my heart is broke in twain, For I have loved—but loved in vain. Sometimes I am a martyr brave, And when folks pass beside my grave, They bow their heads and whisper low! “She saved our country from the foe.” Sometimes, I’m held by pirates bold, To tell where is the hidden gold. But, by some little trick of mine— I kill them all—all fifty-nine. I’m wandering with him by a brook. (Just as one reads of in a book.) The birds sing sweetly up above, I listen to his words of love. It is so nice to have him near, He clasps my hand—he whispers—“ Here.” A voice at my elbow cries, “What is it that word modifies?” I start—I come to earth once more. Oh me, but English is a bore! But oh, my dreams! Alas! Alas! My castles fall—they go to smash! L. A. BECK, ’23. Page Seventeen

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Spot, noticing: his master in that dignified position before such an uninteresting box, pricked up his ears, and trotted over to the boy. For the next half hour Matthew hopefully dragged the old chest in the direction of his house—his feet on the earth, his head in the clouds— rehearsing what he would say when he was congratulated on his good fortune. And how he would pose for the newspaper photographers! Spot helped the general excitement all he could by barking endlessly and jumping up at Matt and appearing to bite his stockings, his tail swinging eagerly. “Get down, Spot, get down. Ooh!—a real treasure!” He reached home. Mr. Herriway arriving at the same time, having come by the road in his wagon, bustled into the kitchen and set down the baskets. Matt could not tell them fast enough. His eyes were bright and round. At each suggestion of a new sentence his enthusiasm grew. Then he stopped. Mr. Herriway threw back his head and roared. “Let’s see it”'—as soon as he could speak. Somewhat dismayed, the little would-be hero pointed out of the back door. The man’s eyes widened a little when he saw the “treasure”; then he fell to laughing again, this time harder than at his first surprise. The boy’s mother looked a little puzzled and smiled faintly in the corner of her mouth. Then—a cry from Matt, a medley of sounds caused by the pounding of an axe against the old rotten chest, and an amused laugh from Mr. Herriway. A moment later and an ordinary, broken trunk—and empty—lay in the yard surrounded by onlookers upon whose faces the expressions varied widely. Matthew began to cry with disappointment; tears trickled down his cheeks over the mud and freckles. The man spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but ’twas so darn funny! Only Friday last I threw out that trunk; it wa’n’t no good no more, and I just threw it out. Treasure, ’ey? Guess again, Matt.” With that he laughed once more and, taking out his watch, bade them good-day. Matt bit his lips hard and then the hot tears came in a blinding flood. His mother consoled him the best she could. After a few min- utes he arose and walked into the house, his feet still on the earth; but his head he kn°w not where. RUTH McCOLLOM, ’23. Page Sixteen

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THE CULPRIT HIS way and that, through the maze of dark city streets, a stealthy figure crept. Unmindful of the dreary rain drizz- ling and dripping about ths unsheltered form, and oozing forth from the low, unprotected boots, the figure furtively darted along, with cap pulled to the eye-brows, and coat collar upturned, leaving only the furtive black eyes visible. Both hands nervously clutched a dark package hidden beneath the dampened coat while its owner crept cautiously in the shadow of the darkened buildings. Hesitating and wary, the figure emerged to a more frequented thor- oughfare, drew a short sigh of relief, and resumed its stealthy way, darting hurriedly along with face averted from the gaze of the passing- throng. '‘Oh, Peggy! Wait!” cried a voice near at hand. With a low, startled cry at the sound of the name, the girl clutched her package more frantically than ever, and sped on down a side street, turned into another one, dashed up a marble stairway, into a spacious hallway, up another stairway, and, with a breathless cry, slammed and locked the door of her own room. The package dropped unheeded to the floor while the girl threw her drenched and breathless self upon the spotless bed. At last, with a sigh of mingled relief, dread, and curiosity, she jumped up, snatched off her small cap, and, with eyes wide, viewed her- self in the mirror. How unfamiliar the reflection! The fearful expres sion in the brown eyes soon faded before a mischievous twinkle, and changed to a hearty laugh when the girl glanced down at the tell-tale package out of which peeped a beautiful silken-? Even as she looked, a picture came before her eyes—a picture of her mother’s utter horror when she should see her daughter—minus the long black------? Again the girl laughed—laughed wildly, exultantly, at—her bobbed hair! ELEANOR WOODRUFF, ’22. Page Eighteen