Hartford Public High School - Classbook Yearbook (Hartford, CT)

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290 THE CHRONICLE I was thanking Shirley for the inspiration her poetry had given me when I was startled by a mocking cry, Carrie wants a cracker. I looked all about and soon discovered that I was i11 front of Berman's bird store and that the noise had been caused by a parrot in the win- dow. On looking closer, I found that it was Carolyn Case, who was perched in a cage adjoining that of a dazzling peacock, who hopped gracefully about much as my old friend Isabella McBurney had done. The shop next door was owned by Miss Murray, but I was astonished to see that the store was perfectly empty. Seeing Marion Cullen out- side pulling up the awnings, I asked her what had happened to the stock, and was told that Ruth Storrs had recently bought the entire contents of the store with which to set up housekeeping. A frightful crash in the street made me rush to the curb just in time to see that I-Iarold Pember, on his motorcycle, had run into Burr Anthony, who was on horseback, killing the horse. The motorcycle was considerably damaged, but Pember soon extricated himself and with the aid of a pair of roller-skates and a watering-can fixed it up as good as new. Anthony was heartbroken over the death of his horse, but Grant Proper kindly took up a collection and Burr immediately started off to buy a new 0116 at Warfield's book store. The large crowd which had collected to witness the accident was soon scared away by Burdette Fothergill's new green suit. Most of the people crowded into a three-deck bus, and, as I felt rather terrified myself, I followed them. I could not help observing that the driver wore a large pin with A. A. on it. From force of habit I was reaching for a quarter, when Mary Horn whispered that it did not mean Athletic Association but Abram Apter. The bus now stopped to take on Longshaw Porritt, who was loaded down with a tent, a knapsack containing edibles, and com- plete hunting, fishing, and shooting outfits. He said he was about to explore the woods around City Hall, and, as the undertaking was a rather dangerous one, he had called up Francis Mulcahy, a lawyer. to give him a few last instructions in case he never returned. I did not hear anything he said except that he wished the Chronicles con- taining his jish stories to be bound in snakeskin and put in the vault in Fitzgerald's Library. We had now reached City Hall, so I alighted and saw to my astonishment that the old building was gone. In its place was a large, white, papier-mlache pavilion which bore the sign:

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