Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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However Nolblie Donne By Gordon R055 Smifla For deeds doe die, however noblie donne, And thoughts of men do as themselves decay, But wise words, taught in numbers for to runne, Recorded by the Muses, live for aye. -Spenser. N SPITE of numerous good points-their good taste, their spirit of independence, their incorruptible principles - our Colonial forbears were not great patrons of the fine arts. Literature, so important to us, had little place in their lives. Libraries-always private-were few and far between, and newspapers were almost as rare. On the page at the left will be seen three photographs of Colonial documents. The lowest one is a typical example of an early American publi- cation, a copy of a Colonial newspaper, dated july 8, 1745. On second thought, it can scarcely be cilled a newspaper , It is only eighteen inches wide when opened. Few papers of these times contained anything of importance. There would be a few extracts from letters, reports from abroad, accounts of local atfairs, and advertisements. Time has made them more or less interesting, but on the date of publication they are said to have been rather dull. Indeed, historians have given the Colonial newspaper a reputation for dullness which I don't think it deserves. The photograph in the middle of the opposite page reproduces a paragraph in the copy of the newspaper men- tioned above. Anyone who read this paragraph, will admit that those were the days when men were men . The two top photographs are of a release, from Lemuel and Mary Parham to XXfilliam Butterfield, for property in the colony of Massachusetts Bay. Only the top and bottom are shown, and the date, which is on the bottom, is january 4, 1756. Notice that it is witnessed by the celebrated leader of the American Revolution, Samuel Adams. It has been well cared for these past 178 years. In its long life it has traveled from Maine to Florida and back again. Wlmo can estimate the value of this document to those involved? Men may have traveled over mountains, through woods, in snow and sleet, to sign this paper. All the people con- cerned in it have long since died, the position of the property is vague, but it certainly isn't in the hands of the heirs of the original owners. These two documents, one once so closely connected with the affairs of the world, the other once so treasured and so valued, have lost all connections with life. They are only interesting relics, only mediums by which we can listen to voices coming to us through the fog of the years, from the days before our nation was born. The REFLECTOR -li 27 I

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The Organist By Myrtle f. Wood IS fingers quickly glided over the keys in a triumphant march. But Old Tom wasn't triumphant. For sixty years he had sat at this old bench and accompanied the Church Choir, but of late there hadn't been much of a choir. No, he wasnit triumphant. He wasn't even happy- The march ended suddenly and Old Tom sat back on the bench, his eyes closed, thinking,-thinking of his sixty years of service in the parish church at Kendal. He had never been paid anything, he didn't want that. All he wanted was the joy of sitting at his favorite instrument, the church organ. Sitting there now, Old Tom wondered what could be causing the poor attendance of the choir Was it his playing? No, it couldn't be that, for the men and boys had always complimented him. And he wasn't unfaithful. He had never missed a service during his sixty years there. It must be something else. Old Tom closed the organ, gathered up his music, and left the church. The brisk air made him feel better. He straightened his stooped shoulders and felt young again as he walked through the graveyard to the latchgate. Old Tom remembered the day he first walked through that latch- gate. He was young and strong then, and about to be married to the sweetest lass in all England , as Tom called her. Mary was still the cheery person she had been as a young girl, and she had made Old Tom happy. It was only lately that he was unhappy, and the choir had caused his grief. Tom loved England. He had never been outside the Lake District of Kendal, so that was the part of England that was dearest to him. Walking down the lane, one could look up at the near-by mountains and see tiny white dots moving about. They looked like moving snow flakes, but any native of Kendal knew they were sheep, grazing on the mountainside. The stone walls, built in olden times. formed a checkerboard on the high hills. Tom looked at all this and tried to forget his unhappiness, but his mind kept going back to the choir. Suddenly he came to a decision there in the lane. He would resign. Yes, that was the only thing to do. Maybe he wasn't wanted any more and the Choir didn't know how to get rid of him. He was old, going on eighty years, and perhaps a younger man would be better. Old Tom decided he would tell the Vicar Sunday evening after the Vesper Service. He lit his old pipe, and walked the rest of the way home deep in thought. Home to Old Tom was a little white-washed cottage with a thatched roof. As Tom opened the rickety gate he spied Mary in the garden, working on her flowers. The garden was Mary's favorite pastime, just as the organ was Tom's. Looking at Mary, one would not think her English. She was not tall and thin, characteristic of the average Englishwoman. She was short and The REFLECTOR 28