Fitchburg High School - Boulder Yearbook (Fitchburg, MA)

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gave me a detailed aeeount of his invention, half of whieh I did not understand, but I gathered enough to know its elaim to be ealled a “ protoscope,” as its object was to ])resent in a moving series of pictures a future aspect to any subject or person — in short, a veritable fortune teller. “Now, then,” he continued, “look through the glass and you will see in a series of pictures your classmates as they will appear sixteen years hence.” The first picture whieh came before me was a schoolroom. A teacher sat before his class, 3 ' oung and handsome. His hair was decidedly auburn, and his well-waxed mustache, of which he seemed very proud, he was industriously training in the way it should go. Instead of teaching the lesson, he was “cracking” jokes, while his pupils, not so much because thc3 ' were amused, but more because they wished to flatter him, were laughing uproariously. In fact he was the very image of our beloved Cobb. But the name which appeared upon the picture was that of Har- old King. My next view was the platform of the Fitchburg Rail- road station, on which the figures kept up a moving panorama. On the left was a bootblack stand where an immaculate son of Africa with a diamond shirt-stud flashing into the face of the ope- rator was having a shine. The bootblack was working with great zeal and the result was most pleasing. He seemed to be a good, industrious fellow and I was surprised to see the sign above his establishment, “Porter Lowe — Shine 10 c.” The train drew in and I was interested to see the passengers alight, though with -no expectation of meeting friends. One by one they hurried away. Only a young man was left standing there. He looked around like one lost, and gazed after the depart- ing train as if it were carrying away his last friend. Both hands were full of various impedimenta of travel — umbrella, telescope, suit case, while a number of brown-paper bags were protruding from his several pockets. As he turned around I saw “ Chas. Wilder” written upon his suit case. A policeman came to him in his distress and directed him to a hotel. My next impression was a large hall full of women. Among these I recognized members of m3 class — Misses Roy, Beer, Phelps, Bugbee, Murphy, Quigley, Hawthorne, Benson, McNulty, Blood, Sweeney, Watson, Bolton, Hannon, and O’Brien. They were lis- 14

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It was one o’clock. The last bell had just rung. I was pre- paring to leave the building when Professor ()l3ear handed me a note as I was going out of the door. The paper contained only these words, “ Meet me at door 3, 7 p. m. to-night.” That was all. I was surprised and perplexed. Why should he want to see me at such an unheard-of hour? Perhaps I had committed some misdeed or perhaps I was backward in my lessons. But no ; th£it was too improbable. I could come to no conclusion. I hastened home. I thought of nothing but the mysterious note. The hours dragged on like days, and it seemed as if seven would never come. At last I heard the whistles blow. It was six o’clock. I ate my supper and hurried to school. I was early, but finally Mr. Obear appeared and opened the door. His countenance betrayed not the slightest emotion, and not a single clue to the cause of this singular appointment did I obtain. ‘‘I haven’t done anything, really, Mr. Obear!” I cried. “Please come up stairs with me,” he said quietly. I followed him up two flights to the fourth floor and into the dark room just at the right of the stairway. He pressed a but- ton and immediately the apartment was brilliantly illuminated by an electric light. In a corner of the room stood a workman’s bench covered with tools and appliances of various sorts. Behind it was a shelf filled with bottles containing chemicals. Close to the bench was a large something, which resembled a telescope. Seeing me looking inquiringly at it the professor said: “This is what I have brought you up to see. Now I will com- mence at the beginning and call to your notice some of the pecu- liar chemical properties of Polonium and Actinium, of which I have taken advantage in producing this instrument.” Then he 13

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tening attentively to the speaker, who was vehemently exhorting the audienee to a life of politieal aetivity, and loudly extolling woman’s rights. The speaker was, in truth. Miss Smith, but what a metamorphosis had taken plaee! Her voiee was no longer the seareely audible whisper of the Latin elass, but instead it was loud and elear and reaehed every eorner of the vast auditorium. The seene ehanged. I was now looking upon a seeluded vale. A little brook was merrily rippling along, and among the trees I eould hear the singing of the happy birds. Before me was a house, or rather a eabin, whieh looked as if it were in need of the most thorough repair. Nearly every pane in the two windows was broken and the holes were stuffed with rags or paper. The door was nearly off its hinges and was leaning over against a stone whieh stood for a support. In the doorway sat a man dressed in saekeloth and eovered with ashes. This poor penitent hermit, as he appeared to be, was no other than John Ryan, who to atone for his eleven demerits had thus seeluded himself in this uninhabited spot. I next beheld a wielder of brooms standing in the eorridor ol floor 2, in a heated diseussion with Miss Duft ' ey, who was evi- dently at present “ institutrice de fran ais.” At the beginning of the eontest both seemed to hold equal advantage, but it was soon elear that the woman was the better of the two. Champ- ney, for it was he, Anally spoke only in short gasps and in flve minutes relapsed wholly into silenee. The protoseope is again turned on. The seene is in the eourt house, and the eounsel for the defense, John MeCarthy, has just risen for his final effort. Argument after argument follows in quiek succession. No point is lost. The judge, jury, and speeta- tors are alike spellbound. The prisoner on trial for plagiarism is one of these literary looking individuals, who are eontinually run- ning their fingers through their hair, presumably to stir up thoughts. As I observed him earefull} the old familiar features of Russell Walker seemed to take shape. I eould hardly believe that Wellington was judge and that Harold Chandler was the plaintiff, now beeome eelebrated for his talent in turning out verse both pathetie and sentimental. His eounsel, Leslie Mossman, was doing his best, but luek apparently was not on his side. After this came a polar scene. In the background the Aurora 15