Fitchburg High School - Boulder Yearbook (Fitchburg, MA)

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REFLECTIONS The scene faded away and another aj peared. In this my honored classmates appeared active. They seemed to be sj ending their time with inanimate objects. A tall boy was joyfully embracing a broom. A short bo3 was tenderU picking paper from the floor. Another whom I easily recognized by his gen- ial smile was triumphantly scrubbing the sink. Oth- ers were eagerly vicing with each other in their attempts to dust the room, and still others were happily engaged in collecting tacks, gleaming, hun- gry-looking tacks, from the chair seats. Already, in their early youth, their irrepressible love of work was appearing. As this scene faded another took its place. A large hall was in view, some stairs leading down at the right. Scattered around on the floor were some pieces of white substance — here a nose, there an ear, yonder a piece of an eye. It seemed to me that the pieces collected and put together would remarkably resemble the features of Daniel Webster. A tall, stern, 3 et kind-looking man appeared to be tacking a notice up on the wall. It read : FRESHMEN BANISHED FROM THIRD FLOOR. A crowd of children were pushing their way down the stairs. Some were indignant, others were crying. Not one was laughing. One little fellow with hazel eyes and dark hair gave the sign a vicious kick as he departed. I looked at the children and my heart felt heavy with sorrow for them, for they were my classmates in their first year of trouble. Evidently their worth had not yet been discovered. Third floor to basement! What a drop! As the last little fellow disappeared the heart began to melt into tiny drops 14

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REFLECTIONS to come down on the shaft, and as it approached I made out the form of an aged man, who was per- fectly transparent. In his hand was a glittering steel. I lay still, rigid, at the sight. The form approached me. I tried to escape. I could not move. Then a thick cloud enveloped me and I could see nothing but gray fog. A deep voice, sounding far away, rolled out, “Thou hast rightly believed the record of this class worthy of preservation. Thou hast rightly de- sired to be remembered. Thou shalt write its his- tory.” I was stunned. I who loathed the sight of a history ? I write a history ? I tried to think of the deeds of the freshman year, but horrors! I could not recall a single thing. Then came again that deep and mournful voice, “Thou shalt recall all things if thou wilt endure. Canst thou bear much for the sake of th3 class?” and my voice uttered a weak “Yes.” Immediately I felt a fierce stab in my heart and a drop of blood oozed out. It fell into the mist and appeared before my e es. It changed into a heart and grew so large and lifelike that I was frightened. Then on the red heart I beheld the gra3 letters, P-R-o-G-R-E-s-s-i-o-N. These disappeared and the sur- face of the heart grew clear and transparent so that I could see what was happening within. I saw a crowd of little children marching, march- ing up the stairs. When they arrived at the top, with awed faces and hushed voices (signs of the annual entering advice to freshmen), the3 gazed at the picture-bedecked walls, at the odd desks, at the numerous alcoves, and some were beginning to make themselves at home, when — consternation ! The3 were politely informed to take the elevator to the floor below. Fourth floor to the third floor. Already de- scending I ' „ 13

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REFLECTIONS as if weeping in sympathy with the ehildren. Then the heart disappeared and all was as before. Soon I felt another fieree stab in my heart and another drop of blood oozed out. This time the sur- face was longer in clearing and when I could see within I could not clearly understand. What I saw was a large room in which were many little girls and many large boys. The little girls, whom I soon recognized as my classmates, were busily writing. But who were the large boys? Moreover, why did the little girls repeatedly tear up what the 3 had written and write more ? Some of their faces were sad and others noticeably cheerful. Finally the clouds of sadness which had rested on their faces appeared to clear away and each little girl carefully folded what she had written and put it near her heart. My mind began to clear. Certain recollections came over me. Recollections of former impassioned efforts. The picture faded. A street scene appeared. Bands were playing, flags waving and people marching. Clearly and sweetly above all the rest of the music, above all the noise, came the strains from a flute. As it approached I saw that it was played by one of my classmates, who, accompanied by many oth- ers, was marching in the magnificent parade. Boys from the freshman, junior and senior classes were marching also, but they passed almost unnoticed, for all eyes were directed toward the boys of the class of 1903. Their dignified and graceful bearing was the feature of the parade. I had reason to be proud of our boys. The scene changed again. This time the romantic second floor of our noble school appeared. It was being guarded by my classmates. Each wore the senior colors. It seemed that the seniors were busy 15