Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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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

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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 iron gates to break thru before the enemy could get into the main part of the structure. It was largely due to this construction that the Marksburg was never captured. As the foe passed thru each gate they were con- fronted with soldiers while pitch was poured down on them from above. If they had suc- ceeded in breaking their way thru the three gates, there would still have been a high tower into which the occupants could flee. The only access to it was a little window thirty feet above the ground. The walls of the whole fortress including the tower were from fifteen to eighteen feet thick. We were then shown the interior of the castle. The rooms were all identical in that they contained a small window and faded oil paintings which showed the artist’s fidelity and assiduousness. All of the rooms were more or less dark on account of the scarcely be- lievable thickness of the walls. The only arti- ficial light to be had was that of candles; con- sequently whatever reading or writing was done in those days was strenuous work for the eyes. Of all the rooms that we saw, the most in- teresting was one which contained a collection of armor used by the former knights. The suits were all arranged as well as possible and afforded an educating spectacle. With each outfit, swords, spears, and lances and the horse's protection were included. Noteworthy Is the fact that each outfit weighed at least sixty pounds. Some of the breast plates and helmets contained dents from sword slashes or spear blows. Another noteworthy chamber was the smithy. Crude, indeed, were the tools there; but they' served the purpose. The knights gave the smith instructions as to size and decorations. Then the brawny man went to the forge and with little more than a hammer set to work. In the smith)- cannon balls were a so made. Even in these early days powder was used to help along the crude bullets. As is to be expected, very few knights had can- nons to protect their homes. Then we came to the last and probably the most awful part of the castle, the dungeon. In order to reach this room, we had to pass over a narrow bridge which was originally merely a p’ank. The room contained nothing soee a!, but there was a hole in the floor about two feet square. It was thru this hole that the prisoners were let down for eternity. The only food that they received was dry and rotten. It was often unfit to feed to the dogs. No apportionments were made. At all times it was filthy and damp there. To make the conditions even less bearable the dead were not removed. Imagine being let down into an ebon, moss-covered compartment from which escape was practically impossible. No wonder the feminine members of our party were overcome with trepidation. Altho we greatly enjoyed the time we spent viewing this structure, we were just as glad to get out in the open air again. A. H., June '23. “TOOTS” Mother said that I might earn money for Christmas, so I thought it would be nice to care for someone’s baby after school. I an- answered this advertisement: “WANTED—A school girl to come after school to take “Toots” for air. Also help with her on Saturdays.” At first my people protested, for as my father said, “anyone who refers to her child as ‘Toots’ is suffering from brain softening.” but 1 was so filled with desire and curiosity that my father found out that the advertisers were respectable people and I was permitted to go. I entered a luxurious hall and a maid tele- phoned up to an apartment that a girl was below to care for “Toots.” A lady came down soon after. She was just like the leading lady in the play, you know, all pink and white, and I’m not sure but I think the pink could be washed off. “Just sit here a minute,” she indicated. She smiled and it was a pretty smile; but then I thought, “I'm glad I’m not “Toots.” I like my kind of mother better. She isn’t so sort of foolish.” “Are you kind ?” she asked. “Yes, I think I’m kind.” “Can you give baths carefully?” “Well, I can wash my niece so that she looks as shiny as new aluminum, and I don’t get soap in her eyes either, tho’ her own mother does sometimes.” “Oh, you’ll do nicely,” she said. “I’ll teach you myself all I want you to do, right now.” There followed a period of learning about different soaps—three, in fact—cotton for eyes, different kinds of towels, water tem- peratures, milk temperatures, and a million other things. “My, this must be a perfect baby,” I thought, “with so much care.” “Now I guess you want to see “Toots.” I know you’ll love her.” And 1 was ushered upstairs through rooms that I thought be- longed only to the “movies.” Finally we came PAGE SIXTEEN