Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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Patrons Superintendent George J. Smith Mr. and Mrs. Walter F. Nutt Miss Alice E. Belkin Mr. Charles A. Berthold A Friend Miss Sarah Brennan A Friend Mr. H. Collester Miss Katharyn Dangremond Mr. Eugene Drees Mr. Fred Eberling Federal Printing Co. Miss Lulu Kingsland Garrabrant Mr. William I-Iaidinger Miss Josephine Hoch Mr. Thurlow W. Hoffman Mr. Edwin C. Hussey Miss Dorothy M. Kearney Miss Mary G. Kelly Mrs. john McLain Mr. john Sekkes, Jr. Mr. Charles M. Sheehan Miss Clarice A. Smith Mrs. Mary Smith Miss Agatha M. Spinella Miss Roylouise Thorburn Mrs. joseph P. Troast

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Heritage By Gora'w1 Rott Smifh HE music of the organ hlled the cathedral as if with some magic color as it rose and fell, almost fading away, and then suddenly breaking upon one's ear with voices of thunder. Clar- ence was quite impressed as he walked down the nave between the rows of pillars. He felt as though he were little more than a speck beside the towering columns, beneath the dis- tant arches of stone. The huge rose windows above the doors made him feel conspicuous. They looked like monstrous eyes, cold and blue, or inflamed and red. They seemed so round-as if innocently surprised. Soft beams of light came through them, beams that soothed the raw stone, glossed over its roughness, smoothed it to indistinctness, until it mounted into nothing - fantastic and dream-like in gloom. Life, thought Clarence, was something like this cathedral: distant, yet close, hard and cold, yet intangible. Ah, that, he thought, would be a good topic for his story, The I3m11u.tic.s of Life. Or maybe he should say, The Inmzefz- Jifier. Well, anyway, that could be decided upon later. just at present the all-important problem was the selection of a theme, a basic idea. In fact, that was the reason he had come to the cathedral. This stoical structure had in- differently looked down on many deeds and scenes, dramatic, pathetic, and humorous, and would look down on many more. Here, he had thought, within this quiet edihce a great idea might come to him. But no idea, no inspiration, no divine revelation came to the boy. A genius is never prosaic. On the con- trary, often a little mad. He walked up to the foot of the chancel. Then he turned to his left and walked around behind the altar. He stared up at the towering columns, columns that formed the back- ground of the chancelg smooth, polished col-