Macomb High School - Spiderweb Yearbook (Macomb, IL)

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Prophesy for the Class of 1910 e ®06 C o 1 am sitting alone in the twilight; the air is warm; the katydids chirr to each other and occasionally a bullfrog chugs from the steamy marsh close by. The window is open, and the soft air blowing through rhe flowers brings a balm for the cares which fill the mind of one who has access to that mighty realm, the Future. Slowly, as the darkness creeps toward me. I feel a forgetting, a sinking come over me. and realize that on this evening it is to be granted me to make a revelation to some weary souls, perhaps to cheer them on the way. The katydids still chirr and the frogs complain, but they, with other earthly sounds are infinitely far away. 1 search about for the knowledge of what or whom I am to see, and finally the answer comes, still through the mists surrounding me, The Class of 1910, Macomb High School.” I stretch, open my eyes, and with a start look downward: there is the mighty world lying in approaching darkness. Suddenly innumerable lights blaze up and all is distinct before me. Along the corridor of a stately college are trooping crowds of students. At the door of one of the rooms, bowing, smiling, or turning with a pleasant word, is Mrs. Arie Kenner X----. now wife of the president of this college. Me is by her side, tall and d: nified : I pause to speak, but the fortunes of this fickle realm leave me no moment for greeting. Instead. 1 find myself with Miss Xella Provine, who is so surrounded with piles and piles of manuscript that she is oblivious of my presence. She has just published the seventh volume of her latest book. Oh! what is this bright light? It seems to come from a school-looni. Yes, it is a night school. At the desk sits a woman, very, ery straight, and tall and angular: glasses perched astride her nose heighten the professional air. Why can't I remember? Oh. yes— Mary Van Etten, to be sure. Who else would devote herself to such an enterprise, so worthy and yet so difficult, of teaching those who toil, toil, toil. May she be blessed in her work! Farther to the south, drawn by the sound of stentorian eloquence, 1 look into a church. There is Harold McKee delivering an address that might well make the shades of Spurgeon envious. Not far away, in an Elysian rose garden, wanders Mrs. Alice Chapman P-------, still composing those incomparable poems of hers. - 21 -

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Again, ! turn northward; here, in a hall patriotically draped with the Stars and Stripes, on the platform stands Mrs. Hope McGillivray R------, leading speaker on Woman's Rights, and exhorts her sister sufferers to arouse themselves. At the foot of the stairs, as of old, waiting to escort his speaker home, stands Mr. Royal Ritchie, now an eminent photographer, whose Photographic Art Studies have reached national note. Here— Oh, what is this I see! The White House! Yes—and without a doubt this is Mr. Dale Lawyer, dignified and scholarly, who, with his wife on his arm. takes his place to receive in the Blue Room. With throbbing heart I look to see what other great honors shall come to the Class of 1910. Before me extends an auditorium, filled to the doors with a “music mad” crowd. Suddenly I hear cheering, and a seemingly familiar figure trots upon the stage . He is large and manly, and through the shock of “musical hair which bushes out and down to his shoulders, I recognize William Rutledge Harris, lie makes his best bow. and seating himself on the stool, with a flourish, a slam and a bang, proceeds to render a Mozart-eclipsing composition of his own. 1 he audience and the piano stand the proceeding fairly well. In another part of the city, in a hall designed for the delight of fair Terpsichore, scraping and bowing. 1 see Professor Alfred ay-land. Dancing Teacher and Chorus C.irl Director. A monocle is screwed into the cavity where a natural eye should have appeared, and he wears his hair rather long, cut pompadour. He is assisted by Miss Agnes McCutcheon, who very daintily teaches the young men the sedate steps of that old-fashioned movement, the barn dance.” But before I can “tread but one measure” 1 am whisked away to a spacious green diamond, half surrounded bv a large amphitheatre. Among the crowd 1 spy Miss Marguerite Smithers. a penant in each hand. Wildlv waving the same, she frantically cheers for “Lefty! Lefty!!” Before he has acomplished that record-making home-run, my eves are fastened on a roomy farm house surrounded by terraces and fountains; the land rolls away like a great velvet carpet. C )h! 1 see at the table in tbe splendid dining room Mrs. Mae Barnes Z-------- and her husband. They are the owners of this, the model farm of the United States. I turn my eyes from this scene of quiet contentment and they alight on a large hospital; through the halls, like a ministering angel, slow and stately, glides Miss Amy Stoneking. the head nurse. Just down the avenue I see an immense hall. Many excited spectators are cheering. I peer around and recognize Mr. Maurice Poster standing forth and bowing in acknowledgement of the honors accorded him as the world’s champion pugilist. Brawny muscles and his robust frame win the admiration of the many college girls present. But who is this in the crowded opera house? Can it be Miss - 22 -