Commerce High School - Commerce Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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Att 3nk 5attlrs i)lUi)qitg (Continued from 1911.) H, I’m so glad that it’s Friday night. Maybe I can talk to myself a little while now. I always have to keep quiet during school time for fear of disturbing those studious children in the study-room. I’m afraid I’ll burst one ot these times, because I do so love to talk. I must be very careful what I say these days, for last year, just about this time, I happened to be talking to myself and about a month after I heard some one reading from a green-backed book and they read just what I had said. They called the book an Annual, but I can’t understand what they are talking about half of the time. My! but it does beat all how those kids find things out. Why they even know months beforehand when they are going to have a day or two of vacation. I remember perfectly, how on one bright September day, I heard a boy telling his chum about all the vacations they were going to have that year. He had even figured out on what day school should close in May. Wasn’t he a fine calculator? He must have been at the head of his class in calculus. This is a fine school. Why, they even teach the boys how to yell till their lungs nearly burst. They holler all kinds of things about shakadaroos and shubygaboos, until I hardly know where I am. I think I’ll be a stationary dictionary soon, for every day I hear about half a dozen different spelling lessons. The other day I found out what I was. Two girls were learning the definitions of their spelling words. Two of the definitions went right home to me, and they stayed there too. They were mighty high-sounding words that I thought only dignified professors and some members of the faculty would know anything about. It seems almost sacrilegious to hear those little children, (“Flats” as some of the older ones call them), roll forth those magnificent, soul inspiring, hair-raising, blood curdling, harmonious words, just as if they were silver-tongued orators. (My but I’m glad that’s gone). Those large words nearly choke me, because I hear so many of them every day, and I can’t repeat them. Well, as I was saying to myself some time ago, I heard these two grand words which seemed to adhere to my mind as closely as sticky flypaper sticks to a black, cross-eyed cat in summer time. The first little girl piped in a little voice, “Say, do you know the definitions of optimist and pessimist? They sound so much alike that I don’t know which definition belongs to which word. Do you know what they are, Sadie?” Then midget number two piped up in her little, wee voice and said, “Well, I think I do, Bessie. You know our teacher counts the missing of one definition as two words, and do you think I want to join the 3:15 Spelling Club? Well, I think not! The members meet every Tuesday afternoon after school and have awful jolly good times, but I’d rather go home than go out at night, and buy ice-cream and peanuts, the way all big girls do. It’s just grand. You ought to try it some time. I tell you what we’ll do, Sadie. I’ll call for you next Sunday evening, and we’ll go to Elmer’s and buy ice-cream, and then

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“It is—” Frank’s heart stopped. He looked intensely at the expert, awaiting the final words which would mean “Yes” or “No”. “------ a forgery.” Frank almost jumped for joy. A cry came from the other end of the room. They all turned in that direction. Robert was there. His face was haggard. His hands were tearing his hair. “I forged it,” he groaned. “You,” they all cried. “Yes, I did it to get even.” There was an uncanny pause, only to be interrupted by Mr. Morganheimer who was sitting in his chair half angry and half grieving. “I cannot prosecute my own son. and I cannot allow' anybody else to prosecute him. He will have to leave and I will return the money,” he said as he slowly shook his head. “My signature too? Did you forge that”? “No. This is my first crime. I was jealous—I was mad to do it. Dad, give me one more chance. Let me stay here and I will earn enough to return the money. Just give me one more chance.” “I can’t let you stay here, son, I can’t do it. I-” “Sir, give him another chance. He’ll make good this time.” It was Frank’s voice that interrupted. Mr. Morganheimer was astounded. He couldn’t understand it. He turned to the Cashier. “What do you say, Mr. Winthrop.” “I would advise you to give your son another chauce. He’ll make good this time,” the Cashier slowly answered. “Thank you very much. I will do it.” At the side Frank was struggling with himself. Across his mind flashed the memories of the times he had been slighted by the boy that was now in trouble. Remembrances of the debate. WTill’s letter, and, finally, the forged check, passed in succession across his mind, lie struggled and struggled, now his hate on account of wrongs, and now his generous impulses gained the upper hand. But at last the better side of his nature triumphantly became the conqueror. He walked up to Robert and extended his hand. “Shake.” “Do you really mean it?” Robert asked as he swallowed hard. “Yes,” Frank answered and they clasped hands firmly as a sign of the friendship that was to exist ever afterward. “Well, you’re white,” Robert said with emotion. “I thought that you were my enemy because I was jealous of you, so I wronged you from the start; but now I see clearly that it was I who was in the wrong and your enemy. By your nobility you have totally disarmed me of resentment. In my arrogance I applied a fine sounding epithet to you, which I now recall. “Mercenary,” you are not. You may be able to run a typewriter, but, what is of greater import, you have the ability to run the human machine. Because of your manliness you can control even a college fellow. You’re white, that’s all there is to it.” HERMAN KAPLAN, ’12. 124

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go home about eight o’clock, just the way all society people do. It will be fine. You ask your mother, Sadie, and I’ll call for you. Oh! My Goodness! Look at that clock! What shall I do? There’s only five more minutes before the bell rings, and I’ve never even looked at my spelling. Give me that book. Quick. Don’t be so awful slow. Some day when you start out for school I wish your mother would chase the dog after you, and make you hurry. Then if she chases the dog faster, the dog would chase you fast, and then you’d all be nice and warm. (I tell you what, Sadie, I’ve learned how to be economical since I studied economy). Why just think! You wouldn’t need any fire in the house! Well now, let me see. What on earth were we talking about before we started talking our last talk? Oh yes! It was about those definitions. An optimist is one who always looks on the bright side of things, and a pessimist is one who always looks on the dark side of things.” Just then the bell rang and the two girls hurried away. Well, that set me thinking. I just applied it to myself. Last year at the time of my dreadful calamity, (I can’t forget the audacity of those children listening to me), I was situated on the side of the study-room opposite the window’s. It wasn’t very light over there, and I always had to look at the wall because my face was turned that way, and I can’t turn around very well. Once in a while someone opened one of the doors near me, and let in a bright streak of light, but he always shut the door immediately. These streaks frightened me because they were alw'ays so unexpected, and usually occurred when I was seriously meditating on some topic. Why, a person couldn’t be more frightened if he was on a little sail-boat out on the middle of the ocean on a wild, stormy night, than I was on those awrful occasions. Well, as I said before, that wall was always dark, and as I always looked on the dark side of things, I must have been a pessimist. This winter I was placed on the side of the room nearest the window's, and nowr I look on the bright side of things, therefore I must be an optimist. This school is a wonderful place. Early in the morning I can see the sun rise (if it does), and I stay at school all day, and at night I talk a while and then drop off to sleep. Sometimes I w'ake up in the middle of the night, when it’s awful dark and creepy, and I can hear the rats and mice running all over the floor and the desks, picking up crumbs that the boys and girls drop on the floor at lunch time. I’m nearly tired to death of their midnight feasts. They even get up on the desks and bounce me up and down and stuff me full of old crumbs which they find. I’ve sworn off eating so much and now' I live mostly on fresh air, geometry, calculus. (I’m not quite sure about that one), and arithmetic, civics, economics, and a number of other interesting things. I wish I could study economy, I’m sure I’d put it in practice more than those children do, (I mean those who spill their crumbs on the study-room floor when teacher isn’t looking). Why I’d eat every one of them if I died in the attempt. Oh, I wdsh it wouldn’t get dark so soon. Every night about this time, I hear queer noises, and I always imagine that all those dozens of bottles down in the 12G