Hendersonville High School - Laureate Yearbook (Hendersonville, NC)

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8 THE MOUNTAINEER Class Prophecy of the Class of 1916 A few evenings ago, I was seated on the piazza lazily enjoying the beauties of a spring night and, incidentally, wondering how on earth I could write the class prophecy which our august president, Mr. Jones, had demanded. Whether I dreamed what followed, or whether it really happened I do not know, but suddenly I heard a queer, cracked voice, exclaim : “Good Gracious, man, don’t make such awful noises !” I sat up and looked, rubbed my eyes and looked again, for there stood the queerest, funniest little being I ever saw—something like a Hop-o-My-Thum and a Rip Van Winkle combined. He was no bigger than a minute. His nose was long and sharp ; little black eyes looked out from under bushy white brows and sparkled like stars in a winter sky ; a long grey beard covered his breast, while his face was so wrinkled and brown it reminded me of a hickory- nut. “Who are you?” said I. “Who am I !” he answered, and swelled up till I thought he was in serious danger. “My goodness, man, are you a simpleton ? Haven’t you ever heard of me ? My name is Rapunzell.” “Oh, excuse me,” I answered, most politely, “It is very dark, you know, and I did not recognize you. Of course I have heard of you. Who has not?” The little fellow seemed molified. He suddenly gave a nimble jump and perched himself on the railing in front of me. “And now,” he said, “why did you give that awful groan ?” Did I groan?” I said. “Well, I guess I was thinking of that class prophecy that I have to write for the class of 1916.” “Umph,” he sniffed, “Is that all ?” “Isn’t that enough ?” “Well, I guess so—for you,” he returned, with a rather unflat¬ tering emphasis on the “you. ” Suddenly, “Look there, ” he said, pointing to a corner of the veranda. A soft mist seemed to envelope everything—one moment it was gorgeous with every color of the rainbow, the next filled with flitting shadows. As I looked those shadows seemed to takq definite shape, and slowly a picture emerged of a handsome drug store. Leaning upon the marble counter of an imposing soda fountain was a rather

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THE MOUNTAINEER 7 Class of 1916 The other day in council grave, The Class of ’16 sat, Said they to me, “Now look here, Lee, You’ve got to be Class Poet.’’ Then, Fellow-sufferers, down sat, I wildly tore my hair. The Heavenly Muse, She did refuse, To shed her light on me. Alas! A poem there had to be, I did not dare refuse; Tho to be a poet, You all do know it, One must have inspiration. So should my meter faulty be, I beg you to remember, That to make a rhyme, At any time, Is hard for any fellow. First on the Roll of ’16 stands The name of Loee English. A gentle lass, Who leads the Class; She’s the fair Valedictorian. Second in line stands a quiet lad, Mack Jones he is entitled: A knowledge of Math He surely hath, And he’s our Salutatorian. I i Then comes a tall and limber lad; His name is Arthur English; He’ll never blench, Except in French, He holds the place of Prophet. Last, but not least is a dark-brow¬ ed boy, Who’s cognomen is Allen; He is the Poet, Alas! You know it, Whose tortured you today. And now, kind friends, I’ll say farewell, My rhymes are all played out. But alas, alack! ‘Tis an awful whack, To know you’ll speed my going.

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THE MOUNTAINEER 9 short, dark gentleman, with a tendency to stoutness, a big black cigar protruded from his lips, and hp was, with quite a lordly air, directing the operations of several white-clad clerks who evidently stood in much awe of him. “I surely ought to know that man,’’ I muttered. “That,” said my small companion, “is Dr. Lee Allen, leading druggist and club man of the thriving city of Henderson¬ ville.” “Gracious !” I exclaimed, “is that Lee ?” And I burst out laughing, for the contrast between this lordly “monarch of all he surveys” and the Lee of High School days, when “Miss Bessie” had dragged him over the coals in Latin class, was irresistibly funny. When I looked up another picture was forming: A crowded street appeared, and standing on an elevated platform was a tall, thin, be-spectacled female of uncertain age and a severe mien. She was “laying down the law” to the assembled crowds. Camera men were taking snap shots at this widely distinguished personage. Suddenly the lady turned her face fully toward me, and what was my horrified surprise when I recognized the one-time Valedictorian of the class of 1916, the gentle, retiring Miss Loee English, whose idea of torture was the fourth Friday of each month when the Senior class had charge of the Chapel exercises. Then this scene faded and another appeared. I immediately recognized the interior of our national Capitol,—it was in the Sena¬ tors’ chamber. A slim gentleman was on his feet frantically ges¬ ticulating, the tails of his frock coat flapped wildly; in his hand was a voluminous document, the headlines of which were, “Resolved, That Women be Deprived of the Ballot.” And this gentleman was none other than my shy old friend, Mack Jones, once president of the Senior class, now Senator Jones of North Carolina. The fourth scene now appeared,—a large, airy school-room ; rows of boys and girls ; and before the desk stood a long, lanky individual; a pointed, Frenchy moustache adorned his upper lip, and a pince-nez was astride his nose ; in his hand he held an instru¬ ment of torture; it was labeled: “Chardenal’s Complete French Course,” with which he was evidently torturiug the unfortunates before him. “Who’s that ?” I asked. “That ? Why, you simple¬ ton, don’t you know yourself ? That is Arthur English, Professor of French and Modern Languages in the H. H. S !” And the shock was so great that I must have fainted, for when I regained consciousness the piazza was empty, nor was there any sign of my little visitor. Was it a dream ? I know not, but that is what I saw.