Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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THE REFLECTOR never seen or heard of before. A pendant, that was all. I didn’t care; to me it was just another display of my deceased Aunt’s pecu- liarities. But I was severely piqued at those two who grinned derisively at me as much as to say that they had reaped the fruits of the favorite, when they had been indifferent. I felt a chilly, metallic thing touch my hand. Instinctively I drew away in alarm, beholding the gift which I was to receive as an heir. It was thick and heavy, its only decoration being three criss-cross marks which resembled plain scratches; nevertheless I took it, dangling it in the air, sniffing it as I did so. Yes, that odor was unmistakable. Meanwhile Mr. Browne was ransacking his desk for some- thing,—I had a suspicion of what it was, but waited until he said. “I—I can’t find the hand- kerchief that it came in.” I laid his fears to rest by telling him that I had it and how 1 came to possess it. In answer I was told what had still been a question to me. Aunt Clara had personally delivered that packet several months ago. In the handkerchief was a note telling Mr. Browne to open the packet when it was expedient. Although he pretended ignorance he was fully aware of my aunt’s illness. Being impatient, I left them, and reached home by taking a trolley car. In my room I gazed long at the pendant but finally thrust it aside in fear, and peeked under the bed and in the closets. But there were no “boogeys” there; so 1 conjectured that it was the state of my mind that allowed such an idea to enter into it. Each day I tried to repel the wish to hold the locket in my hand and play with it. so it was with timerity that I finally forced myself to pick it from its corner, with a little more fear perhaps than when Eve plucked the apple from the Tree of Knowledge. As I looked for a time at the round hard thing, a sudden thought flitted across my mind. I pressed the three marks in order. Then I noticed that one seam was larger than the other two. I pressed the smallest one; next, the one which was a little larger; lastly, the biggest of the three. No result. I tried it vice versa. Click ! It sprang open with an audible snap. A thousand fires! A beautiful emerald, dazz- lingly bright, was embedded in the center. I gazed at the lovely object longingly, having the natural passion for jewels. A slip of paper dropped out. I read it eagerly. It ran thus: Dear Barrara : Hv this time I shall he finding peace and solace in another land than the earth, yet loving mystery I could not help leaving a little of it behind when I left. I thought that if I placed this gent in the jewel case, for that is what it was before it was remodeled, and if you were clever enough to figure out the scratches, the stone would be yours. If you have not contested the will. Mr. Browne will hand over to you a sum that will fit you for Jife. Lovingly, Your Aunt Clara. I am not ashamed of the tears that I shed over this note. It was so like Aunt Clara to give a false impression, then rectify it by some mysterious means. I have preserved the lette in a little book that she had given me before her death, and when I feel a bit high-flown or extravagant, I take it out and read it, com- ing through the ordeal of tears a better and happier girl, fully thankful to the One who made her possible. A . McLain, June ’24. HER HERO 1 In former days (so I’ve been told) A maiden in her dreams. Dreamed only of a knight or prince. Some one of rank, it seems. 2 He came upon a milk white steed, He did great deeds galore. Was bold and brave and handsome, too. This hero of days of yore. ’ 3 Our girlie still has rosy dreams. Wherein appears Prince Charming, But the contrast in the heroes,—ah. Ah. me 1 is quite alarming. 4 He comes not on a milk white steed. He’s not a duke or lord, He’s only a football hero (Perhaps he owns a Ford!) 5 In by gone days he fought his foe, His lady fair to win, And now he fights upon the fie'd. But for a mere pig skin. 6 He may not be so handsome, and He may be awfully fat, But if he’s on the football squad, Why, what cares she for that ? 7 It's nice to dream of kings and knights, But those dreams don’t come true, While dreams of football heroes bold, Ah, very often do 1 A. Beck—June ’23. PAGE FOURTEEN

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THE REFLECTOR iiiiiiiiMiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiimimimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiimi | LITERATURE | iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiihiiiiiiiiT THE FRUITS OF THE FAVORITE AUNT CLARA was averse to dogs, strangers and social spongers, believing there were no such creatures as men, unless they honestly earned their own fortunes. My two cousins called her eccentric, and since they stood aloof, I was called upon to grace her whims and return her affection. One afternoon, she being critically ill, I was sent on an errand to her lawyer’s. Speeding down town in the roadster. I soon reached the main thoroughfare. The tall buildings loomed gigantic before me,—but there it was, the small, wizened office of Browne and Browne, wedged in among its colossal brethren. As I entered the door, there came to my nostrils the faint odor of rare, yet familiar perfume, but I was unable to identify it at the time. There was a flash of gold, the slamming of a drawer, as the older Mr. Browne shoved some- thing into a recess of the desk. Though I eyed him distrustfully, wondering at his sus- picious haste, I was completely won over by his affable cordiality. Yet his unctuous man- ner, as he suavely rubbed his sinewy hands together, irritated me. When we had ex- changed such general topics as the weather and the scarcity of coal, he began speaking of the subject of my errand. “Did your Aunt personally send you?” He seemed to eagerly await the answer. “No. As she has been ill with the grippe, no one but the attendant doctor and nurse, have been allowed in her room. Brocker, the nurse, gave the message to me.” “Oh, of course. But that will be no hind- rance in speaking of her will.” “Her will,” I echoed dazedly. “Yes. her will. I have here---------.” He didn’t finish his sentence, for the phone bell rang. “Hello 1” A moment of silence but for the indistinct sounds of the other party’s voice. “Yes,—yes. Well, that is too bad, Miss Brocker. I’ll tell her immediately. Good- bye.” I waited impatiently. Suddenly I espied a dainty white thing on the floor. The lawyer did not see me pick it up, nor did he smell the odor which issued from its wrinkled folds. “Your Aunt is very low, Miss Wenley. You are requested to return home at once.” I didn’t need any requesting. Simultane- ously I rushed out of the door into the waiting auto, leaving a gaping policeman in my wake. Upon reaching home, I climbed the steps by twos, meeting at the top a grave assemblage of servants. They may have criticized Aunt Clara while her health was good, but no one could doubt the sincerity of their tears when she was ill. I was summoned to the sick woman’s bed- side. She made a faint attempt to smile, and beckoned to me to approach her. She was hardly recognizable; the great eyes were sunken, her whole expression was ghastly. It was in those brief seconds that I discovered how much I loved her, and I gladly kissed the wan cheek. Summoning all possible strength, she said, “Barbara. Mr. Browne has been a very good friend in every troublesome strait, and I expect you to do all that he says. His orders are mine.” “But why, Aunt Clara?” She just patted my hand, smiling the while. Due to her phy- sical condition, her face was too colorless and drawn to be beautiful, but it bespoke a sub- limity, which I was incapable of understand- ing then. A gasping cough, and I bent over her. using soothing words. The nurse applied restoratives. But Aunt Clara had calmly passed into the sleep from which she would never awaken. About a week after the funeral proceed- ings I unwillingly found myself in Mr. Browne’s inner office. There in front of me were my two cousins, smiling, and nudging each other at intervals. On two arms were black bands which reminded me of the pomp- ous piece of ribbon on one of my own. Look- ing up, I beheld the two hypocrites grinning at themselves, grinning at me. grinning at the will that was being read, which announced favorable endowments to them. The attorney was now reading my name, but I listened with no interest, expecting the same legacy as the other two had received. It was with much surprise that I received a pendant which I had PAGE THIRTEEN

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THE REFLECTOR A TALE ABOUT DOUGH In early times, the operations of the bar- ber were not confined as now to shaving, hair dressing, and making of wigs; but in- cluded the dressing of wounds, blood-letting, and other surgical operations. It seems that in all countries, the art of surgery and the art of shaving went hand in hand. Mr. Barentz was one of these barbers, daily visiting his customers, and performing what- ever was to be done. He was a small, stout, short-sighted man, filling his suit even better than his office. His hair, of red color, stood in stiff, bushy tufts about his ears, and his broad red bow gave his whole face the appear- ance of a framed-in pie with a large hill in the middle. To see him stride along on a winter morning, his shape about as spherical as the earth’s, one might easily mistake him for a snowball instead of our good old friend, were it not for the color of his face, hair and bow. Thus, he whom I have just described was traveling to one of his customers. His pot under one arm and other surgical instruments in the other, he was busily whistling to him- self until he finally knocked at the door of Mrs. X’s kitchen. The door was opened, and the lady of the house bade him enter into the room adjoining. Mr. Barentz, feeling that the pot under his arm was in his way, laid it on the kitchen table and did as he was asked. His mouth watered when he saw that the mistress was making dough; for at such times he was al- most sure to get at least one cookie. As he sat thus, the master of the house ar- rived, and everything having been prepared for the hair cut which he was to have Mr. Barentz looked hurriedly for his pot. Finally he caught a glimpse of it and without looking in it hurriedly put it over the head of his patient, for such was the old method of hair cutting. But lo 1 his patient’s head looked like a volcano that had just run over, only in place of the lava was dough—all dough 1 The poor patient made a desperate effort to cry for help, but every time he opened his mouth, the dough ran in. Soon after, Mrs. X appeared with great lament. “My dough 1” she cried, “My dough! You have spoiled it on my husband’s head.” With that she boxed Mr. Barentz on the ears saying, “Here’s your old pot and remember it.” The next minute Mr. Barentz was sitting outside on the stoop, his pot a broken mass beside him. He gazed astonished about him- self with the words, “Well, for the love of mud.” Thus all hopes for cookies were gone, and whether he went home again or whether he sits in the same place to this day, I leave for you to decide. J. Kirciihof, June ’24. THE MARKSBURG ' I ' HERE are all sorts of fortresses on the A Rhine in Germany. Some are large, some are small; some are high, some are low; some are entirely in ruins, some are well kept: some have been entirely rebuilt, while but one is in its original state. And that one, called Marks- hurg, is the one 1 am going to describe. It is visible from a great distance because of its location on a mountain. We had to do about fifteen minutes of climbing before reach- ing our destination. All along the road were benches so that we could rest occasionally. At the end of the road was a little restaurant where we waited for our turn to go thru the castle. As soon as the guide came we started out. He first called our attention to the fact that there was a moat to get over and three strong PAGE FIFTEEN