Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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THE REFLECTOR “How much can you do? she asked. “ 'Bout forty-seven, Miss. “Well, when you get out on the Post Road do forty-seven all the way.” And she handed him a bill. “Thanks, Miss,” he said with a broad smile on his face. “I’ll squeeze fifty out of ’er.” She urged her car to its utmost all the way. Such speed, by all the laws of nature, should have caused an accident, but the Fates seemed to be always with her. However, it was not long after when the taxi turned up the driveway and Jean ran out to meet it. The driver winked at her and smiled as he helped her father out. “Well, Daddy, it's here.” she exclaimed. He looked at her—his face a deathly white. “Yes. And so am I—just about.” “Why, what’s the matter?” “Oh nothing. Only I could have come home with you because this fellow is almost as bad as you are.” She laughed and they started for the big field at the rear of the house where a number of men were busily unpacking large crates. One morning about four months later the big aeroplane with Jean as its pilot slowly started to taxi across the field, gaining more speed as it went, and finally left the ground like a huge bird. It rose to a dizzy height, circled around a few times, and flew north- ward until it was but a tiny speck in the sky. “This is real speed,” said Jean to herself, meanwhile going about a hundred miles away. “I think I’ll climb a little higher.” as she slanted the nose of the plane upward. She had risen but a few hundred feet when the engine went dead and the plane fell like a wounded bird. She worked the controls frantically but to no avail. Suddenly she re- membered the parachute and prepared to jump. The plane gave a quick lurch and threw her far out into the air. She dropped swiftly. Such strange sensations came over her. Her body felt like a chunk of ice—her feet felt heavy—her stomach seemed to rise to her throat—her mouth became dry—the wind rushed past her so fast she could not breathe —her head whirled—she clutched the air for something to hold her up. Oh! would that parachute never open. Such swaying, such strange sensations, such torture. If some- thing would only stop that terrible descent. It seemed hours and hours when suddenly something jerked under her arms and almost stopped her in mid-air. Thank Heavens! the parachute had opened. Her descent was then more slow than before and she began to regain her senses. But still the strange feeling in her stomach and the tugging under her arms were there. Such torture. Where were her friendly Fates now ? Unexpectedly something seemed to fly up from the ground and grasp her. The swift descent was checked and the immense para- chute settled lightly over her. When she had untangled herself from this mass of ropes and canvas she found that her shock-absorber was an apple tree. A young farmer helped her from the tree. Upon learning what had happened and who she was he speedily got his machine out of the garage and before long was speeding her homeward. It was about dusk when the lad turned up the driveway to her home. Her father came rushing out to meet them, his face a ghastly white. “Jean—Jean—What’s wrong? What has happened ? Where have you been ?” She smiled a brave little smile, “The engine went dead and I fell, but I—.” “Jean, girl, are you hurt?” her father whispered hoarsely, but there was no reply. The young farmer had her in his arms and was taking her upstairs. The next morning with the sun shining strongly in her eyes she regained conscious- ness. A number of people were seated about the bed. The first she recognized was the kindly face of old Doctor Evans. From him she glanced at Mr. Doran who smiled pleas- antly. The next was the pale, drawn face of her father. She smiled sweetly at him and said, “Daddy, my car will be plently fast enough for me from now on.” William Mair, Feb. ’23. “Papa, what is an escutcheon ?” “Why?” “This story says there was a blot on his escutcheon.” “Oh. yes! An escutcheon is a light-colored vest. He has probably been carrying a foun- tain pen.” —Houston Post. Mischa Elman tells a story of his early youth. He was playing at a reception given by a Russian prince, and played Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata, which has several long and impressive rests in it. During one of these rests a motherly old lady leaned forward, pat- ted him on the shoulder, and said, “Play some- thing you know, dear.” —Argonaut. PAGE EIGHTEEN

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THE REFLECTOR to a blue and white nursery. As the lady walked over to a white enamel basket. 1 was frightened out of my nine years of growth, for “Toots” didn’t crow nor gurgle. She didn’t even cry. She barked! All this for a mere dog. J. V„ June ’26. THE SPEED VIXEN T EAN LA MAR showed her first signs J of speed at the age of three when she tumbled down two flights of stairs because the descent was quicker that way. At ten she could ride her bicycle at a fast pace. On her eighteenth birthday her father presented her with a big, powerful, racing car. With this she was an unusual speed demon. She had a huge, silver loving cup which she had “cop- ped” in a race from a field of professional drivers. But still she was dissatisfied. She wanted something with more speed and thrills. So it was on her twentieth birthday that she reminded her dad of the present he had promised her. “So you thought you had to remind me, did you?” questioned her father as he blew a cloud of bluish cigar smoke into the air. “No, Daddy, I knew you wouldn’t forget me but 1 thought perhaps you would forget what 1 wanted,” responded the little dark haired girl seated on the arm of his chair. No. To-morrow morning when my little Jean is twenty she shall see it.” “Oh, Daddy, you’re a dear.” And deep silence fell upon them. Mr. La Mar broke his thoughtful mood finally. “Jean,” he said, “if I give you what you want you will have to make a promise to me.” She looked at him with a puzzled counten- ance and nodded. “Promise me you will never do any fool- like tricks with it as you have been accustomed to in your car.” “Oh Daddy!” she exclaimed with a note of disappointment in her voice. “No. You’ll have to promise me. I’m sorry but I don’t want to lose my little girl.” Silence again interrupted their conversation, but not for long however. “Yes. 1 promise—I’m sorry,” she apolo- gized, “I didn’t mean to be so selfish to my good daddy.” “That’s a good girl. Now, when you’re ready to see it to-morrow morning call me and I'll take you down.” “All right. Good-night.” And she skipped off to bed like a happy child. The next morning, bright and early, Jean brought her father from his sound sleep to show the present to her. lie was still grum- bling a little because of his interrupted sleep when he climbed in the car beside his daugh- ter. “I can’t wait until I get there,” said Jean as the big car rolled forward. “Well, remember, not too fast. I’m with you,” he replied. She cast a teasing smile at him and said, “All right, Daddy, not over seventy.” He had ridden with her before and knew she would keep her word. He said nothing but braced his feet against the floor, pulled his cap further down on his head, and grasped the seat with both hands. And keep her word she did. The car had not gone a mile on the smooth, concrete road when it was doing fifty miles an hour. She glanced once at the crouched figure by her side, smiled, and in- creased her speed. In response the big car leaped forward and the speedometer stopped for a moment at sixty-five, then moved slowly on to sixty-seven—sixty-eight—sixty-nine, and remained there until they reached the city. When they stopped at their destination Jean turned to her father and said laughingly, “Well, Daddy, I didn’t even do seventy.” “No,” he replied, “but so near it that it wasn’t healthy.” As they entered the big office a tall, dark man greeted them. “Good morning, Mr. La Mar.” “Good morning.” “You have come to see about your order?” he questioned. The other nodded. “Well, it was delivered this morning. It ought to be at your home by now.” “Good. By the way, Jean, this is Mr. Doran who will instruct you.” She smiled and nodded her recognition. “Shall we start to-morrow or is that too soon?” questioned Doran. “Oh! We can’t begin too soon,” she re- plied. “Very well, to-morrow morning then.” When they reached the car she jumped in and exclaimed, “Hurry up. Daddy, I can’t wait until I get home.” “You can go ahead,” he replied, “I think I’ll take a taxi home because this time I sup- pose you won’t go any faster than the car can go.” She smiled. “All right, Daddy, I’ll have a taxi come get you.” And she sped away leav- ing him in a cloud of dust. She found a taxi and gave the driver the direction. PAGE SEVENTEEN

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THE REFLECTOR iiiiniiiiiiiiiimimiiiiimimiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmmiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimimiimiiiiiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiii | EDITORIALS | 1111 ■ 1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111 ■ 111 ■ 111111 ] 111111! 111111 i 1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111 ■ I iT We are pleased to present to you the ninth edition of the Reflector. We are conscious of its defects but we have tried our best to make this Reflector an interesting issue, and we sincerely hope that you will find it profit- able and enjoyable. We wish to extend our deep appreciation to the student body for its contributions; to the faculty for advice and aid; and to all others who have cooperated with us. We also hope that our advertisers will be pleased with the results of their ads and—“call again.” R. M. S„ '23. Long ago we decided that a new high school was needed, and in due process of time we shall evidently live to see this cherished pro- ject become more than a mere wraith. In fact, as the Gold Medal Flour Concern puts it. “Eventually, why not now ?” However, have no fear. I shall not venture into this much discussed or rather disgusted subject. But I wish to call your attention to the fact that the student body ought to make itself worthy of a new school or should exhibit some real live school spirit. Do 1 hear some one ask what I understand l y real school spirit? I should define it as a willingness, nay, eagerness, to show pride in one’s school; to participate in school activ- ities; to sacrifice all selfish motives for the benefit of the school. Some may ask whether this definition applies when there is nothing to he proud of or when there are no activities for which they are fitted. That is the very point I wish to speak about. This school is ours. It is, has been, and always will be what we make it. Clothes do not make the man, nor up-to-date buildings the ideal school. A school is what its students are. Don't knock the school but help elimin- ate its faults. An easy way of doing one’s bit is by getting interested in something about the school,—athletics, the Reflector, or the Radio Club. Organize Spanish Clubs, French C ubs. Dramatic and Debating Societies, anything that will liven up the place and make school worth while. Last, but not least, make a real effort to get good marks in academic work. We have gradually built up a reputation in athletics as a school where they make teams that fight hard and clean. Now show them that we possess the ability to dig in and study. Every study that is flunked is a set back to the reputation of the school. Whether Clifton High School shall stand forth as one of the leading schools in North New Jersey or step back into the abyss of second-raters rests upon our shoulders. Start the New Year right and show some real, live school spirit. Jack Feldman, ’23. “Aw, why should I take history and science this year? I’m going to wait until I’m a Senior.” Thus spoke the Freshman. “No, I’m not going to be bothered with biology this year. I have enough homework now. Seniors have it easy; I'll wait until then.” Thus spoke the Sophomore. “Well. I should say I’m not going to take both algebra and Spanish. I’ll take one of them next year.” Thus spoke the Junior. “1 guess I’ll need an extra long program card to put all my subjects on. 1 can’t get a 1 those things in seven periods. Oh, why didn’t I take those extra subjects when I had the time and opportunity. 1 haven’t nearly enough points.” Thus wailed the Senior. Moral—Don’t wait until you are a Senior to take the elective subjects y; u need for points. Rather take all the subjects you can before you enter your fourth year and you won’t have to depend entirely on vour Senior electives to pass you. R. M. S., ’23. “A nickel, please.” “Got change for a quarter?” “What are those? Marshmallows? I’ll take one.” “Got any peanuts? No? Are these figs? Well, then 1 don’t want any.” Fellow students, don’t you admit yourse'ves to be quite familiar with these well worn say- ings? Haven’t you heard them daily in the library? Do you appreciate the fact that PAGE NINETEEN