Glens Falls High School - Red and Black Yearbook (Glens Falls, NY)

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23 g THE. RED and BLACK You know, I've often wondered what they keep in that safe, and with all my wis- dom, I've never been able to find out. Obediently the snake crawled away, and I heard its marble coils clattering down the stairs. I sat down on the pedestal beside her. Are you really very wise? I asked eagerly. I suppose I amf, she replied modestly. Can you tell me anything I want to know? I queried breathlessly. Anything,', she smiled. I am not reputed to be a prophetess, yet I have some secret knowledge of the future. Then tell me, oh tell me, what there is in the future for the Senior Class, I begged. Without further delay, she obligingly began: The first one that comes to my mind is Robert O'Connor. I see him as cheer leader for the Old Ladies' I-Iome, attired in a gay sweater of deep purple with crepe trimmings, the class colors. Next I see Margaret Ramsey thrilling a vast audience in the Metropolitan opera house with her wonderful voice, while Madam I-Iomer stands at the stage door grinding her teeth in envy. The scene changes and I see walking down Glen street, Thelma Thomas, the proud parent of angelic twins named Aeneas and Dido. In spite of any effect their names might have on them, the children get along splendidly together. And now I seem to be outside a large theatre while overhead twinkle a thousand electric lights, tracing the following words, 'Miss june Lovely' in 'The Bootlegger Loves I-Ier Still? lMiss Lovely, it will be remembered, was Miss Edith Clarl-1.1 Again the scene changes and I find myself in a somber study. The walls are lined with deep books on philosophy and theology. But who is this person whom I see seated at the desk busily writing? It is none other than Miss Estelle Dear- styne engaged in her favorite pursuit of writing deep, melancholy essays on higher thought. This time I seem to be in a prison-and I see a familiar face. Ah! it is Miss Helen Williams. No, she is not one of the convicts. She is lecturing to them on the inspiring subject4'The Importance of Being on Timef '6 And now I see before me a small hamlet, consisting of four houses, a church and a store. There is but one person visible in this lonely landscape. He is at- tired in a white suit Cthat is, it was oncel, and carries over his shoulder a long handled brush. Behold, the person is indeed Mr. Gordon Barnum, the street cleaner of West Ft. Ann.

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THE RED and BLACK 22 institutions of higher learning, never to sit in a class-room of our High School again. The Class of '2l makes its bow and passes into history. Harold A uslin, Gordon S. Parhidge, Bloomfield I. Russell. CLASS PROPHECY Everything happened this way. I had been late every day for the past two weeks until it had finally become a habit. But that morning, Mr. Stilwell called me into his august presence. Please, he begged, as a favor to the faculty and the school, please try to be here on time tomorrow morning. As he uttered these heart-rending words, his voice shook, and tears came into his eyes. Deeply touched, I vowed that I would be there the following morning-but how? That was the question. My only hope, the alarm clock, was broken. It was then that I realized that the only way possible was for me to stay there all night, so I would be sure to be there the next morning. So that night, I successfully evaded the watchful eyes of the several teachers, and after all had left the building, entered the study hall, sat down in one of the seats and fell asleep. It was the middle of the night when I awoke, but I was not at all sleepy, and decided that I would wander around the building, and see, as much as possible, how it looked by night. I made my way carefully down the stairs and found myself in the lower hall. All was deathly quiet, and dark save where the statue of Minerva gleamed white in the dim beams from the arc light on the street. I went to the door, and looked out into the peaceful night. As I stood there, I heard something moving behind me. I turned in amazement. The statue of Minerva was no longer cold and lifeless! A rosy flush was creeping over her face, and a look of supreme intelligence welled up into her otherwise vacant looking eyes. The statue had come to life! I stood there too astonished to speak. Minerva smiled and spoke first. Don't be surprised, she remarked pleasantly, I do this every night at this time. While speaking, she had climbed down off her pedestal, and sat down on it, arranging her robe. Come over and talk to me, she said invitingly. I get awfully lonesome here all alone. If you wouldn't mind removing that snake first,' ' I demurred. Minerva smiled, and touching the serpent on the head, spoke a few words in Latin. Do you know where it can get anything to eat? she inquired. I suppose it might try to find something in the safe down in the domestic science dining room.

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THE RED and BLACK 24 Again I see a stage and this time Hitting about it, gracefully attired inashort white skirted affair, I see Monsieur Cashion, famous toe dancer of the Russian Ballet. Monsieur Cashion's love for fancy dress was first manifested in l920, when, as 'C-ratiano,' attired in a dazzling costume of blue and gold, he wooed the fair Nerissa. This time I seem to see before me, a broad expanse of fields, and in the dis- tance a small farmhouse. The dawn is just breaking over the pastoral scene, dis- closing to my view an industrious figure clad in blue overalls busily engaged in digging apples. Ah! now I see that this prosperous farmer is indeed Mr. Bloomfield Russell. Although it is now barely four o'clock in the morning, he has already been at work over an hour. lGood work, Russell, say well Next there floats before my sight the vision of an-extremely pretentious building. At the entrance I perceive a sign reading 'Mn Merritt Braydon-Famous Spiritualistic Mediumf And now, I am entering his seance chamber. It is hung with dark, somber draperies and an air of mystery pervades the place. In a mas- sive chair I see Braydon himself, attired in a red and blue bathrobe, with a Turkish towel artistically wound around his head, gazing fixedly into what seems to be anin- verted goldfish bowlfpresumably a crystal. But this vision is not yet ended. The door of the seance chamber opens, and in steps an extremely prosperous looking young man.fIt is Cordon Partridge. 'Well, Braydon,' he sings out, 'I sold 250 ouija boards to-day. Not so bad, eh?' Braydon smiles and rubs his hands. 'Cood work, partner,' he answers, 'there's sure one born every minute, eh, Red? This scene gradually fades from view, and another takes its place. I see this time before my eyes a poor tenement district swarming with rather foreign looking people. A woman attracts my eye-a woman with a kindly benevolent expression- and on looking closer, I can make out Miss Harriet Smith, missionary to foreign lands lwhitehalll. This angel of mercy is busily engaged in handing out copies of 'Hamlet' to the starving population. This vision over, there arises before my eyes a stately ancestral castle, home of Count Meout and his wife, formerly Miss Mary Wilson. On entering the castle, I am struck forcibly by the bareness of the place and the thought comes to me that the furniture has been sold to pay the taxes. Though sad, 'tis true. For al- though Mary's husband is a Count, alas! he has nothing to count. S S S S I What a change! I now seem to be standing before a long counter, while be- hind it stands Mr. Arthur Cowdery, bartender, passing out liquid refreshment to thirsty souls. Ah! now the scene grows clearer. Oh, pardon me, my mistake.