Coquille High School - Laurel Yearbook (Coquille, OR)

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I SENIOR PROPHECY “No, it can’t possibly be the Almond Martin of our High School days.” The speaker was Gertrude Butler, who owned an exclusive shop in New York, and was a famous designer of French gowns. I had gone there shopping and upon asking to see the head of the shop I was greatly surprised to find my old school mate. “Well, here it is. Read for yourself,” I said, handing her the paper. She read aloud: “Greatest invention of the Age! Almond Martin! inventor! has just completed the construction of an airship in which he intends to sail for the planet Mars. Instead of gasoline it utilizes electricity from the positive and negative ions of the atmosphere. Mr. Martin, it is said, believes that he has distant relatives residing on that planet.” “Well of all things,” she exclaimed, “that boy always did have queer ideas. What do you suppose has become of all the rest of our old classmates?” “Why,” I said, “you surely have seen Veva Varney’s picture in the society columns of the Coquille Sentinel. Poor thing, her husband was a Coco Cola fiend and soon after their marriage died from excessive use of the strong drink.” “Oh, how depressing. Don’t you think a show would revive our spirits?” We acted upon the suggestion and started over town. Just as we stepped off the street car a huge poster caught my eye. It read: “The awe-inspiring and tear-provoking Flossie Radabaugh in ‘The Murderer of Death Valley.’ ” “Look, Gertrude, let’s go here,” I said. “I read her ‘Beauty Chats’ every Sunday in the Times.” We went up to the window but as there was a full house we went on, hoping to find another near. It began to get late, so more for curiosity’s sake than

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LMI'kJjshil I, Flossie Radabaugh, will to Frances Kistner three of my best curls, including the “Merry Widow,” which grows down the middle of my forehead, provided she never rats or abuses them in any way. I, Helen SherWood, leave to Adrienne Hazard, my art of casting coquettish glances. I, Eunice Perkins, will to Wilda Clark my ability to trip the light fantastic. I, Rosanna Schroeder, will to Leland McGilvery my extreme bashfulness in public. I, Veva Varney, bequeath to Audrey Fraedrick my ability to ask intelligent questions and appear brilliant when I have not studied and do not know my lesson. I, Viola Knife, will to Gertrude Bogard, my power to attract precious jewels—especially diamonds. I, Mary Bennett, leave to Harriet Gould my radical views on “Woman Suffrage.” I, Myrtle Newton, will to Jennie Price my musical talent, which ranks second only to Paderewski. I, Dorothy Newton, bequeath to Polly Moon my extremely cool and collected manner on all occasions. I, Lowell Simpson, will to Lorin Schroeder my power to blush and act innocent just at the right time. I, Bessie Finley, bequeath to Ellen Baker my ability to vamp in the dark. We, the Senior Class of ’21, request that this, our last Will and Testament, be faithfully executed by our executors in every detail. We, in witness hereof, do hereby set our hand and seal on this 30th day of April in the year of our Lord, One thousand nine hundred and twenty-one. Signed and witnessed by: Ima Joker. I. B. Witty.

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anything else, we stepped into the “Midnight Follies.” The girl on the end looked familiar to me, so I asked the girl next to me who she was. This is what she said to me: “Oh ! That pretty girl with the baby blue eyes ? Why, that’s Dorothy Newton, the big hit of the season. And do you see that woman in a severe tailored suit, a sailor hat and horn-rimmed spectacles. “Well,” the girl went on, “That’s Myrtle Newton, Dorothy’s sister. Being heart-broken at her little sister’s advent into the chorus, she has made a life career of the Chorus Girl Reform. She’s the author of The Reformation of the Future Generation of the Daughters of Eve.’ ” I repeated all this to Gertrude and, as you can imagine, she was as completely astonished as I was. After the show, we loitered along Fifth Avenue looking in the shop windows when a funeral procession passed. The Pythian Sisters were all out in their regalia and an endless string of cars came behind the hearse. We were standing there, wondering who, of so much importance, it could be, when a man behind us said that it was “The Most Excellent Chief” of the Pythian Sisters, Rosanna Schroeder. Why, it couldn’t be our Rosanna Schroeder, but deciding it could be no other but she, we followed the procession to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Upon entering the church who should we see in the pulpit but our classmate, Wayne Woodward. We remained after the service to talk with him of our old school days. He told us he had spent four years in the Cannibal Islands as missionary but for the last two years he had been converting Hula Hulas in Hawaii. He appeared to be much in love with his present occupation and anxious to return. Upon asking him of the cause of Rosanna’s death a look of intense pain shadowed his countenance. “It is a sad case, Her Most Excellent Chief hit her thumb and poisoning set in.”