Commerce High School - Commerce Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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Z )t Snterpreter 1AM now fifty years of age, live in Cleveland and am a retired business man, but as I sit before the fire at night I cannot help recalling my boyhood days. I was bom in Shreve, Ohio, spent my early days there and knew all the people for ten miles around. I especially recall one funny incident when I was about ten years of age. I was sitting on the fence near the road eating a large piece of bread covered with jam, when Farmer Jones came along. He was an old friend of the family and whenever he drove by he would ask me to come with him. He was so very deaf as to be obliged to have some one to do the hearing for him. He visited our home so often and I rode with him so much that he understood everything I said by the movement of my lips. One day while driving with him we came to a farmer who was working in his garden. Farmer Jones yelled at the top of his voice (he never spoke quietly). “Have you any chickens to sell?” The farmer replied, “I never owned chickens.” But in order to derive some fun out of it I told Jones that the farmer had chickens. The following conversation then ensued: Jones—“How many chickens have you?” Farmer— I told you I have none.” Interpreter—“One hundred.” Jones—“What do you sell them for?” Farmer—“I am not selling chickens.” Interpreter—“Ten cents a pound.” Jones—“That’s too high. I can get them at John Davis’ for eight cents a pound. Interpreter—“He says he wouldn’t sell them to you.” Farmer—“Well, why don’t you go there? Jones—See here, sir, I want you to understand my credit is good the country around. Why man alive I’ve got ten thousand dollars in the bank.” Interpreter—“He says, ‘You wouldn’t pay for them any how.’ ” Jones—“I want you to know I am an honest man.” Farmer--“When did that man get out of the asylum?” Interpreter—“He says, ‘I know who you are and you can’t fool me. You look like a bunco man.’ ” Jones (driving off very angry)—“I think you are a crazy old fool and I bet you never owned a chicken in your life.” Jones was so very angry that he did not say a word to me the entire way but kept mumbling to himself. When we arrived at my home he saw my father and recited the entire conversation to him. It was impossible for me to stifle my laughter so I 126

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“Still we were promised day by day That all the things were on their way And they were coming soon. But thus I traveled day to day, And on account of this delay, They sent us home at noon.” So after fun this freshie went, And all his energies were bent To gain the end desired. He certainly had lots of fun, And scores of zeros soon had won, For studying made him tired. Report cards to his pa were sent, But on his way the freshman went And did not seem to care. He funnier grew from day to day, And was the gayest of the gay, And sometimes even gayer. His retribution came at last, In June when all the others passed. And freshie stayed behind. He wished then that he’d studied more. He spent the summer feeling sore. Like others of his kind. And now to freshmen he will say, “Oh, don’t get funny, don’t get gay, And then grieve for past sins.” He never more will careless be. And as for having fun—not he, For only Hard Work wins. VALERIA SCHACHA, ’10. Julius Smith (describing people)—They begin to die and get gray. Teacher—Which first? J. S. (arousing himself)—O! I was thinking of trees! Some people get gray first, then dye. 126

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walked away, and after Jones left I told father what I had done. Although he was angry, it amused him very much and Jones was never the wiser for the trick played upon him. Whenever I think of that ride, although it was forty years ago, I recall what a funny position old Farmer Jones was in. STELLA BECK, 1910. V Wt)c Jfreslmian There sits a young Freshman with paper and pen, Both talking and writing as fast as he can. No one in the school room has more to say Of the various things that have happened that day. The lesson’s no sooner assigned to the class, Than up comes his hand, and the teacher he’ll ask, “Please, teacher, the lesson I did not quite hear, I was thinking of what things might happen next year.” The teacher will answer, “Page one and page two, When you are a Sophomore you’ll watch what we do.” At all the long questions he’ll scornfully look, Then find the short answer in his Algebra Book. And many a noon he has joyously passed, In telling the things he would do at the last. “Good games of clean football I surely shall play, You’ll find me a hero in brave deeds some day.” The time was approaching, the end of the year, The “exams” were fast coming, his one greatest fear. In his hand was forced something—he found it a note, One which a wise Junior in kindliness wrote. “O Freshman, raw Freshman, d’you know where you’re at? I hate to see people so full of their chat. ’Tis those who say little that do their work best, As you will soon learn when you come to the test.” JOSEPH BERNSTEIN, 1911. 127