Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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TUE REFLECTOR CLIFTON HIGH SCHOOL FEBRUARY 1926 He turned to the telephone and wasted a number of precious minutes attempting to reach the doctor, but the only answer central would give him was, “Sorry. They don’t answer.” Something must be done. He remembered see- ing her turn down Henry Street, so he rushed off in that direction, stopping a second to tell the patrolman on the beat to watch the store so no one would carry off the safe and cash register. Fear lent speed to his heels and short- ly he arrived at Henry Street. “What house did she enter? Thev are all alike.” By this time Joe saw himself laid out in a coffin with his friends silently and sadly mourn- ing over him. “This will never do. How can I ffnd her?” He was walking slowly down the street let- ting his gaze rove every which-way when his eye encountered an orange splotch far up on the dark expanses of the tenement. “That must be the sick-room. I had better investigate.” Into the hallway plunged Joe on his way to the top floor. His path was blocked by the accu- mulation of ages. Discarded baby carriages, broken bird cages, filthy mattresses; everything the tenants had no use for at present seemed to be out in the passageway in order to hinder him in his quest. At last the top floor was reached. He rush- ed through the dirty unkempt rooms until he came to the front bedroom. There was the woman pouring out a dose of the medicine in what appeared to Joe as the largest teaspoon in the world. Joe’s heart stopped beating. “Wait a minute. Let me see that label. Did you give her any of this stuff yet?” Glaring up at him was a plain blank label, and when the lady gave him a negative re- sponse Joe’s heart resumed its natural function. He gave her explicit directions and a dropper, and then went back to the store. But not to sleep. When old man Miner came down in the morning he found the store open for business and the place all cleaned up; even the floor was freshly mopped. Something was wrong. Joe was in the back crimping the prescription labels. “What’s the matter, Joe? Aren’t you feeling well? What are you doing?” “I’m all right. I’m just fixing these so they don’t stick together; they might give us some trouble some time.” Stanley Woodruff, June '26. COURAGE “I’m afraid, I’m afraid,” sobbed the boy, as he sat at the table with his head on his arms. President Lincoln had just issued a new draft. Men, money, and more men were need- ed! Lee’s victories in the east had instilled fear in the hearts of the countrymen in Penn- sylvania and New York. Union soldiers were deserting at the rate of a thousand a week! Officers were finding hundreds of excuses for “vacations.” Lincoln realized that an important step must be taken, or the war might result disastrously for the North. The new draft was put to work in Pennsylvania and New York, and was caus- ing riots and mob attacks. Thomas Amor had been notified of the draft. He was but a lad of sixteen, called to duty to fight for the honor of his country. His father and older brother had just been killed in the terrific battle of Shiloh. This episode had in- stilled fear of war in the boy’s heart. He was afraid! He lifted his head at a sound in the hall. Soft, steady footsteps came until they were outside his door. The boy re- mained motionless. The door knob was turned quickly. The door opened and closed. The first thing that Tom seemed to see through his blurred eyes was a gorgeous blue cape, wrapped around the body of a tall, lithe man. As the man came nearer, Tom’s eyes cleared and were drawn to his quiet, forceful features. He saw clear eyes, looking steadily into his, seeming to pierce his soul. This man lifted his right arm and pointed at the boy, saying in a kindly tone, “Do you know me? I am Courage. My talc is a tale of the highways and byways, and the broad, white plains, and the midnight pines, and the mystic- tinkle of hidden brooks on moonlit hillsides. “It is a tale of the sea, of battlefields, of pal- aces and humble cottages, of the roads that cross and recross everywhere—railroads, mud roads, and the straight, straight road of duty. The desert wastes of Egypt know it, the cold snows of Labrador, the rice fields of China,— and the streets of Philadelphia. “I can infuse bravery and courage into every human being. For doing brave deeds, some are called heroes. You are afraid now, but you will not be so on the battle-field. PAGE SIXTEEN

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T II E R E F L E C TOR CLIFTO N HIGH SC H O O I, F E B R U A R V 9 2 6 The erstwhile Distracted Lady entered, very noticeably happy. Her laughing lips were part- ed in a joyous smile; even the tiny red lights in her crinkly brown hair twinkled furiously, as though from sheer joy. Her mischievous blue eyes sparkled radiantly in close competi- tion with the dazzling diamond on the third fing- er of her left hand. Unmoved by the Distracted Lady’s evident happiness the Heart Specialist serenely greet- ed her. “You’re looking well,’’ she said, her tone, as usual, monotonous from the absence of inflec- tion. “Have you heard?” asked the Distracted Lady anxiously, ignoring the Specialist’s polite interest in her welfare only because she desired to speak of the one thing entirely enveloping her mind and completely suffusing her heart. “No, but I can see,’’ Madam Confidente re- plied, gazing meaningly at the sparkling gem. “Indeed I can see,’’ she repeated with great finality and greater satisfaction at her own wit, “that you have your cause of Distraction wrap- ped securely about your finger.’’ “No-o-o!” protested the erstwhile Distract- ed Lady laughing, “the Foil!’’ Mabel V. Harhison, Feb. ’27. PRESCRIPTION NUMBER 3430 Buzz ! Buzz ! Zuzz ! sang the buzzer. “What in the world is that? Who is waking me up at this time of night? I suppose someone has an earache so they think it’s all right to call me out.’’ Joe Moss was a prescription clerk in Miner’s Bowery pharmacy. It was bis duty, as junior clerk, to sleep on the tortuous iron cot in the storeroom on warm nights, and under the coun- ter on cold nights, to satisfy the wants of the poorer section of New York’s Eastside. Joe was tired. He had been up most of the night before, and then had put in a hard day’s work dressing windows. He resented this get- ting out of bed late at night. “Why couldn’t these people come during the day? The door is open sixteen hours a day. Isn’t that time enough for them?” This was the third time that week Joe had been called from his warm bed to answer the bell. “Well, I bad better see what they want be- fore they push the button through the wall.” As Joe started for the front door he saw a lady stamping up and down in her impatience. In her hand was a prescription. “Well, that is better than a nickle’s worth of oil of cloves; we’ll make some money on this jot.” When he opened the door the woman rushed in, nervous and excited. “Fill this for me in a hurry—my little girl is almost dead.’’ Joe had never been in a hurry in his life. He bad an unwritten code not to hurry when he was called on duty at night. How could a man at that unearthly hour of the morning be in a hurry ? Joe scanned the prescription. Morphinae sulphate gr. XVrI Aqua Dis. qs. a.d. oz I Sig. gtt. v.g. 3 hrs. Dr. Hogan. “Well, this is important. I had better get a move on or this kid will pass out in a hurry.” Joe was sleepy and tired or he never would have done what he did. Instead of in a neat dropper bottle he dispensed the prescription in a regular one ounce bottle. He then wrote the label and pasted it on the bottle, smoothing it down to make a neat package. In his hurry he cheeked it but once, and then hastened out to give it to the woman. He followed her to the door in order to lock it and, while doing so. watched her turn down Henry Street, a street of dark, dreary, odoriferous tenement houses, every one alike. “I guess I had better clean up that counter before old man Miner gets down in the morn- ing or there will be trouble.” He was taking the graduates over to the wash-basin when his eye caught a familiar ob- ject on the floor behind the sales counter. Pick- ing it up he scrutinized it. “Five drops every three hours, Dr. Hogan.” “Why, that is the prescription I just filled. What label did I paste on the bottle? Here is where I make ray first mistake.” Immediately there flashed across Joe’s vis- ion the scene in the bed chamber. The woman opened the package and saw a regular bottle and a label. And what that label called for or what directions it gave, Joe did not know. “That lady will not know what to do. She’ll give that child a teaspoonful of that medicine and then where will I be? A teaspoonful of that medicine is enough to kill a couple of men.” Joe then saw himself behind the bars at Sing Sing. Then he saw himself being led to the electric chair; in his fright he could almost feel the current as it surged through his body. “This will never do,” thought Joe. “I must get that prescription back tonight.” PAGE FIFTEEN

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THE REFLECTOR C LIFT 0 N H I C; II S C H O O L F E B R C A R Y 9 2 6 “Remember my words, my boy. A man who never possesses fear of anything he undertakes, is not what I call courageous; hut, a man who possesses fear and yet stands up and conquers that burning fear in the face of death—he is what I call courageous.” So saying, he smiled, and left the room, drawing his blue cape tight about him. Tom seemed to he filled with a new deter- mination. He rubbed his eyes as if awaking from a dream, stood up, squared his shoulders, and went out to enlist. Alvina Carson, June '26. AN OLD MAX’S DREAM In a chair in his private house in London, England, an old Chinaman sits idly dreaming— dreaming of the land of his childhood among the plum and poppy blossoms, along the Chang River. This is a strange contrast to his pres- ent home, in the midst of the turbulent city. Mist. Fog. Not a pretty landscape in sight. London is by no means a bright spot of nature. It is a seething city, its purpose being mainly the transaction of business; that is what brought him to London business. When his purpose here will have been completed, he will go back —back to that strange, joyful land of his fore- fathers, along that self-same river where as a boy be bad fished, and whistled, and sung songs merrily all day. How well be remembers his blue, baggy trousers and jacket, and his brown, dancing feet, all as if it were but yesterday. What a vivid picture is Hi-Nan’s humble home, among the silver rushes and piping reeds, near the river. Hi-Nan was his mother. She had departed long ago. Her spirit had gone to her fathers. Hi-Nan had been a brave and wonderful mother to him! How dear to his heart are those familiar scenes! Yes, he will go back—back— back, where the gentle breezes will blow, fan- ning his withered cheeks, putting new strength into his weary body. There will he worship bis Buddha, and burn his incense in peace. He will eat the sweet fruit of his countrymen, walk with them, listen to them, speak to them, rule over them! How pleasant will be the re- mainder of his life, spent up there among the plum and poppy blossoms—along the Chang River—where the reeds make hollow noises, as the wind blows—where the rushes moan and sway. Clara Kuzmiak. WHAT THE OLD BELL SAID “You are quite right,” said the old bell. My voice is cracked, because one morning, while I was calling at my loudest from the school- house tower, something went wrong. Since then I have retired to this old dusty attic. 1 was quite fond of the children and used to watch them to and from school, I remember two boys in particular, Hilly Swift and Thomas Slow, both good boys. I could clang and ding-dong at my loudest, but I could never get Thomas to go to school early. His house stood on the top of a hill, a long way from school. He could see the clock in the tower pointing to ten of nine but he said, ‘School starts at nine o’clock ” “Tommy, Tommy Slow!” I cried, “you for- get that you have a long way to school, and it takes some time to walk down that hill. Hurry, or you’ll be late!” Hut not he. “Now it was different with Hilly Swift. He lived in the valley still farther away; but he came to school whistling a cheerful tune and was always ready to say “present” when his name was called. “Many years have rolled by; the boys have left school and are grown up men. Poor Tom- my is still behind Billy Swift. Look through the window, please. Do you see that fine house among the trees? Mr. Swift lives there. See that poor man walking with a rake over his shoulder? That is Thomas Slow, and, I de- clare, he is late for his work in the fields again. “Now listen to me,” continued the old Hell, “walk side by side with time, instead of a step or two behind him.” Evelyn Erlf.r, June ’28. A STRAXGE PARTY An invitation had been given me to attend a surprise party and to bring a cherry pie. So on the appointed evening I went to the given address, and was admitted to a darkened room, as is the ease at most surprise parties. As I sat there I heard many strange and unfamiliar voices. It was then I realized that I was about to have an adventure. Suddenly someone gave the signal to be quiet, for the host was coming. As his huge form darkened the doorway the lights went on. and everybody shouted “Surprise.” What I saw was as much a surprise to .me as it was to my host, for he was George Washington. Hut seeing him was only the first shock, and others followed one after another, as I looked around at the strange crowd. For among them were Christopher Columbus, Captain Kidd Robinson Crusoe, Tom Sawyer, Jessie James and little Red Riding Hood. PALE SEVENTEEN