Madison Central High School - Tychoberahn Yearbook (Madison, WI)

Page 20 text:

Vet. he scarcely seemed to merit such treatment, and only once did he show signs of great viciousness, when, half-starved, he made a raid on an apple wagon. The terrible retribution that followed effectually prevented a repetition of the performance. According to all Sunday school novels, the most promising beginning for a brilliant and striking career is in the gutter. When was there a Carnegie who never wheeled a dump cart, a Lincoln who never split rails, or an Edison who never sold matches. In spite of the fact that his self-made motto, B2, is hard to live up to,—-it seems rather to be “move on,”—he comforts himself with the saying, “per aspera ad astra,” and, hitching his wagon to a star, struggles not only to “move on,” hut “onward and upward.” 18

Page 19 text:

 ot f)0morr Clam faint r» The history of the class of 1910 is not like that of those spoiled and petted children, the other classes. Their goings out and comings in have always been effected with decorum, and under the eyes of affectionate guardians. If they have excelled, surely it was not without reason. But, like Dickens’ poor Jo, this class has lacked all such advantages, and, without a permanent abiding-place, has been forced to take refuge with strangers. Nobody seemed to want him and he was never encouraged to stay long in one place. lie was accused of corrupting the innocent Fourth Warders under whose roof he timidly and unwillingly sought shelter, lie was complained of by neighbors because he taught their children to snowball with a too fatally accurate aim. He was not even permitted to play on the railroad tracks, to dabble his feet in the lake, or sit on the Burchell’s stone wall. He was driven off from lawns and sidewalks by Policemen Cosgrove and Zil-isch, who jingled little bells to warn him that he was on forbidden territory. He was turned off from streets and out of buildings, and was not even allowed in the Children’s Room in the Public Library without a pennit from the chief of police. He was censured for being early, and condemned for being late; locked in when he ate his dinner, and locked out when he had none to eat. He was regaled with broken bits of German, fragments of Latin, tough scraps of History and hard nubbins of English, while comfortable odors of boiled onions and com beef and cabbage of more fortunate mortals were wafted up to him. It is hard to say what would have become of him if occasionally a certain worthy confectioner, whom he called The “Pal,” had not given him shelter on rainy days. Even the dentist’s chair or a hard seat in the comer drug store seemed hungry after his wanderings. If some friendly Snagsby stopped to give him a kind word, a constable of the dread Detective Bucket would appear with, “My instructions are that you are to move on!” And when, like Jo, he inquired “Where!” got the familiar reply, “My instructions don’t go to that. They are that this boy is to move on.” [17]

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