Hiram College - Spider Web Yearbook (Hiram, OH)

Page 28 text:

Ibiator of ' 95. UR Hiram Day is setting. A few more onward y J steps in the glory of its fading twilight, and the golden quarter post, hacked with ’95, shall have been passed. Life’s distances are often reckoned from this point. Here paths divide; and with to-morrow’s dawn, world’s gateways open, close, and seal up forever the knowledge of friends separated—yes, friends, for the class of ’95 has always been a unit. The commencement-reaper, with automatic diploma- binder, now somewhat rusty, must be readjusted for grain more perfect, even “full in the head;” and soon nothing will be left but stubble (?). For years the faculty have watched with anxiety the upward progress of this crop, growing more top-heavy with every season. But it had taken deep root in Greek and Integrals and the minds of recitation overthrew it not. Transplanted from all quarters it grew strong and vigorous; if any stalks were shorter than the rest, they made up in fibre, so that Prof. Wakefield, as he surveyed the gleaming field, “felt right good about it all.” The lottery of talent differs from that of chance. In the realm of reason, the possibility of drawing first prize is not equally divided—no, not even among college classes. Cranial scars and tattered flags were never considered “first prizes” by the class of’95. Yet even in this com¬ petitive system it has never yielded the palm to a superior. That of which it is most proud is the possession of first place in two oratorical contests. It should be said, how- 22

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Class of ’95. Class Motto, Class Flower, Class Colors, yvc O ' ivJ Pajisy. Purple a7id Gold. Glass Rip! Rah ! Raz! Rip ! Rah ! Raz! Hiram! Hiram! Quatre-Vingt-Quinze! Class Professor, E. B. Wakefield, A. M.

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ever, that much of its success and present joy is due to a “right good bringing up.” We have had good parents. Respected and loved, our class professor and wife, Mr. and Mrs. E. B. Wakefield, shall ever be remembered. The senior s spirit will often wander back and hover near an old spot whose charred remains have long since been scattered by the wind and ground into the earth by the shuffling feet of strangers. Then, when the eager stu¬ dent’s eye has wearied and the last light has faded from the hill, imagination will ply her phantom torch. Again, the crackling flame will flash high among the surrounding trees, revealing with fantastic light the faces and shadowy forms of those that were, while solemn prophesy is mocked by answering night-wind and murmuring foliage. H ere the class of ’95 bids all “good-night,” trusting that the dawn may bring as bright a day for those who follow. As for them, nothing can keep back memory’s smile. Historian.