East Huntingdon High School - Mirror Yearbook (Alverton, PA)

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CLASS PROPI-IECY Los Callas, January 4, 1940. My Dear Classmate: After spending some seven or eight years in traveling I find myself in this hor- rible city on the island of Nogrub in the Pacific. Here I am homesick, almost penni- less, and a drug addict. I had a funny dream the other day and it made me think of you. I shall probably never see you again because I fear that I have not long to live. It is my desire that you should know the contents of this dream even though it be of no importance to you, so I am resorting to the only means that I have of telling you-by letter. Several days ago I, Samuel Hasken, was hungry, disgusted, and without a white friend in this large city. It was chilly, for this is the winter season. True, I haven't a white friend here, but I do have a friend. I mean my friend Mato Yam a Chinese opium-seller who lives in the dirty section of the city. Mato would welcome me any- time. His house was warm, he cooked his rice well. I decided to pay Mato a visit. On my Way to Yam's house I passed several of the wealthy American inhabit- ants of Los Callas. None of them even so much as looked at me. When I arrived before Mato's house I marvelled at the thought of my best friend being of a differ- ent race and dwelling in such a place as he did. The house was of Oriental design and one would never mistake it for anything other than what it was, the home of a k fl stone and red Chinaman. From where I stood on the crooked sidewalk of bro en ag brick I could almost touch the black tile roof where it protruded over the low, ele- gantly carved window frames. A twelve-inch strip of hardwood in which were cut, by hand, a thousand beautiful designs, was half hidden in the shadow of the eaves. How skillfully and patiently some industrious Chinaman must have labored to pro- duce that work of art. The front of the house was divided into squares by long strips of two-inch boards. Weather boarding ran diagonally in these squares. Mato's home was a true example of Chinese architecture, grotesque yet beautiful, dismal yet inviting, for therein dwelt a friend. Three loud raps made at measured intervals brought my friend to the door. He carried a small kettle of steaming rice in his right hand and greeted me with a, Hom Slam. The gentleman of the almond-eyed race asked no questions but imme- diately produced my chandoo and a quantity of opium. But I am without funds, I protested in vain, for after several minutes of ar- guing I was forced to accept the gift or lose the one and only friend I had in Los Callas. Reluctantly I entered a half-darkened room of silk walls. I did not like to ac- cept charity but Mato insisted. I lighted my chandoo and stretched myself on a black leather couch the draperies of which consisted of several hand-woven Chinese shawls of fiowery designs. Silence reigned, disturbed only now and then by the occa- sional tattoo of Mato's chopsticks on his rice bowl. Lazily the smoke rose from my pipe, stretching into ribbons till it almost reached the ceiling when it would make a sudden dive toward the fioor then reverse its course just as suddenly to be drawn, as if by human hands, through a small opening into the attic. The patches of light that I was able ot see through that opening revealed to me the cause of those strange antics of the smoke, for the patches of light were holes which provided a draft. For some minutes I amused myself by observing these antics. There followed a period of time of which I can recollect nothing. The next thing that I remember was when I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was standing on the main thoroughfare of what was evidently a large city. The names of several firms disclosed to me that that city was called Alverton. How much more pleasant it was than Los Callas! I felt like a child again. Why even the alleys that led from the main streets of Alverton were more beautiful than the parks of Los Callas. What a quiet town, I thought. But my thoughts were suddenly interrupted. Bang! That noise could have been made by a Colt .45, nothing else. It was fol- lowed by a deathly silence, then several reports rang out as from an automatic. The shooting was taking place several hundred feet away from me. Everybody was try- ing to see the fun. I seemed to have lost for the moment that most outstanding characteristic as the human race-curiosity. I made tracks in the opposite direction from the shooting. I soon stopped short in my flight, however, when I suddenly saw a large brick

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some of the Juniors took part in debate, which was something like the arguments your mother and father have every morning. The fourth year was the busiest of their whole period of training. They had to publish a book called 'The Mirror,' besides taking part in athletics, class plays, operettas, and the like. They became more proficient in all these activities, constantly Winning new laurels for themselves. Finally, on May twenty-third, 1930, they received their diplomas symbolizing the fact that they had at last reached knighthood-that after four years of hard work they had become real knights of learning. Aunt Sophie leaned back in her chair, thinking of those far off, happy days when she, too, had been a high school student. Tell us what happened after they became knights, the chil- dren eagerly cried as the story had greatly aroused their interest. But Aunt Sophie looked at the clock and kindly but firmly said, Not tonight, children, for it is bedtime. Perhaps I shall some other time if you Wish. She kissed them all goodnight and they reluctantly climbed the stairs to bed. Joe Myers CLASS SONG We're the class of 1930, And our aim is living right, We cast OH all the unworthy For what doth become a knight. After all our fights and failures We have Won a victory at last- VVe now reap joys and pleasure In bounteous measuresg All hail to the blue and white! Music by William Medsgar Words by James Frey

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building that attracted my attention. What could it be? Oh, a theatre. Yes, the large eletcric sign told me that this was the Paiwell Theatre and that Clark Ansell was the proprietor. A hand painted poster in the theatre entrance stated that a number of stage stars had decided, at the request of Miss Marie Stoker, prominent charity worker, to donate for a day their services to charity. Among the stars whose names appeared on the sign were The Blue-eyed Blonde, The Dusty Dancers, Tiny the Tumbler, and Tappy Gene. I secured a ticket from a lanky specimen whom every- body addressed as Cece. He had a far-away look in his eyes. Almost exhausted from the recent excitement, I was glad, indeed, to enter the theatre and sit down to rest. The seats were very comfortable, and I observed that they were a product of the Albig Seat Company. The auditorium was pretty well filled up when I was somewhat annoyed by two fat Dutch boys who were making more noise than fifty Italians at a spaghetti-eating contest. Each carried on his arm a basket Hlled with peanuts, chewing gum, and candy. After several minutes a huge barrel-shaped gentleman appeared on the stage before the curtain. He had the air of one upon whom there rests a great deal of responsibility. My neighbor, a Mr. Evans who claimed to be a sheep-raiser, told me that that egotistic personage was one Mr. Keefer, stage-manager and official an- nouncer for the broad-casting of that show, and that the two peanut venders were his sons-which wasn't hard to believe. I was thrilled when I listened to Mr. Keefer's very charming voice as he bel- lowed, The Blue-eyed Blonde, better known to us Alverton folk as Blanche Foss! The Dusty Dancers, Kooser and Eicher! Tiny the Tumbler, in private life Mrs. Emma B. Medsgar, wife of that world renowned pianist, William Medsgar! Tappy Gene, the lady tap-dancer! She's an old friend of mine! Ha! Ha! Ha! He presented to the audience a number of prominent people such as Dr. D. R. Pfoutz, the veter- inarian who built the home for sick mules, his wife, Kathryn F. Pfoutzg Madame Lowe, the well-known dietician and maker of menus and budgets, and the inventor of a patent lemon-squeezerg and Miss Mabel Myers, the leading female politician of Alverton. It would take too long to tell you about the show, but it was wonderful. As I was leaving the theatre I met a newsboy from whom I purchased a copy of the Alverton Times. On the first page was an explanation of the shooting to which I had listened. Detective Scottie Ford had found it necessary to squander several shells when he recognized the notorious bank robber Scarface Al Love who was playing the role of a blind beggar. The paper stated that Ford and 'Love were.get- ting along nicely under the expert care of Miss Kathryn Speirs, Miss Faye Miller, and Miss Winifred Lynch at the Alverton Hospital. On the same page was a telegram from Rev. Myers who with his wife Dorothy K. Myers, Mr. Clifford Crosby and his wife Viola T. Crosby, and their son Eugene, and Anna Lee Thomas, Eugene's nursemaid, are touring the West. In the telegram Mr. Myers said that he believed that the capture of Love would mark the end of the recent crime wave. He also said that Mr. Ford must have fought a gallant fight, and he wished him the best of luck and fifty cents, the fifty cents to be taken out of Ford's own pocket. That was a fine little paper. The big item on the society page was an account of the marriage of Mr. Wallace Kuhn, the pumpkin pie baker at the Pritts' Bakery, to Miss Marie Cramer, a leader among the upper five hundred of Alverton. Mr. Milford Flack was best man and Miss Dorothy Leighty was bridesmaid. Mr. Pritts furnished a huge cake for the wedding breakfast. After the wedding breakfast Mr. and Mrs. Kuhn were rushed in one of James Crosby's purple taxi cabs to Hill's air- port where Daredevil Bill Hill gathered them up in a wingless aeroplane of his own invention and flew to Dogtown where they visited an old classmate, Miss Al- berta Anderson, a manicurist, who presented the bride with a beautiful manicure set of yellow-come-pink ivory, and manicured the bridegroom's fingernails-a fifty dollar job in itself. ' Slam! It was Mato's voice. ' Like a flash everything came to me. I had been dreaming. I was stricken with a severe headache, my stomach was paining me. It was the opium. As usual, I swore never to use it again. Opium is bad. A . I hope this letter finds you and all the rest of my old classmates in much better condition than myself. As ever, Your pal, Samuel Hasken. --JAMES FREY-