Newark School of Fine and Industrial Art - Fawcett Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

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CLASS PROPHECY Пау hy: hool, 1927 ose genuine surprises—a warm, bright spring day in the middle of March. As I joyfully did my daily dozen, to the inspiring strains of the radio, I suddenly realized that the day was Tuesday, our landscape day, when we go out of doors to paint, so I snatched ту paintbox and hastened off. Within a few minutes, I was painting busily in one of Newark's n most charming, quiet road and Market Streets—when suddenly 1 dropped my brush, which rolled into the center of the street. I rushed to retrieve it when something gently bumped into me and I must have fainted, for upon awakening I found myself seated in front of a man dressed in armour and on horsebac k. [ squirmed around to see who had so rudely picked me up, when I gave a shout of surprise for the man who held me in his muscular grip was Harry Dragonetti! Why, Harry,” I exclaimed, “whatever happened to you, you've changed so. “Calm down now, Miss U. R. Temperamental, don't you know that the army makes a man out of anyone? he asked. | nodded my head and kept quiet, wondering about the change I was seeing since | awoke from my faint. Suddenly, however, our horse stumbled and kicked off one of his shoes. Harry angrily stopped his horse in front of a large establish ment—we alighted and entered. Rows of blacksmiths stood in front of electric anvils and shod horses which were seated comfortably in soft needlepoint armchairs. The master horseshoer came toward us and took our horse away and, while he was feeding the horse char- lotte russes, I saw something familiar about the shake of his head. “Why, Freddie Mauer, is it really you? Madame, do you realize this is the year 1940 and I am a prosperous horse- shoer? I do a flourishing business. “What became of automobiles? I asked. You remember a girl named Lillian Miller? Well, she bought up all the different automobile concerns, including the trifling one of Henry Ford, and invested the money in mining interests on the Sahara Desert. Within a year she lost all her automobiles so that the horse returned—and— here is yours. Goodbye.

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ARTS AND CRAFTS | A Јо = B r

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CLASS PROPHECY Harry and I jumped into the saddle and before we had gone very far I made ] 1 him stop, for the beautiful notes of a street org cache еагз. 1 pushed ту way through the tremendous crowd and 1 saw а tall, mannish-looking woman smok ing a long cigar while turning the crank of the organ. It was Marie Cuozzo. She always was a musician, | thought, as I returned to Harry. While we rode I asked him about his History repeats itself, you know. After all the marvelous ideas about ultra modern warfare, a master mind came along—one “Madame” Claire Weyand- and declared that medieval warfare was the best, so that we are forced to be canned according to her ideas. Ву the way, do you remember Lettie Wissert? She is ош mayor now—elected by unanimous vote of the student council. But do you see that woman passing by? She is Pete Fredericks, our head agitator for the Supremacy of man over matter. And so we talked on—passing many men wearing knee-length skirts and flowered silk socks—and some women all dressed like Pete. We passed many huge buildings— so high that no sky could be seen at All but electric lights hung from the roof of every building—and an aeroplane kept swoop ing down and lighting each one of these with a special attachment. “Who can that daring aviator be? I queried. Why, that's Gladys ack. jut see—that might interest you.” Harry pointed to a giant moving picture palace where huge posters exhibited a play starring May Klespe, the beautiíul blonde, second Mae Murray. I was thrilled, but we hurried on. We had passed a Chinese building an d I told Harry that it must be a laundry shop, but “no,” said he! “Thats an artists’ studio. The great Chinese realist, George Foy, lives there. He's had so many inquiries as to the origin of his name that he was forced to revert to his ancestors and grow a queue and long mustaches. Now Bobby, his son, has taken his father's cue and has become another great artist. But here we are at Kresge's department store—let's go in for a few minutes.” Standing at the broom counter was a stout woman with red hair showing from under her wide hat. “Hello, U. R.,” she said, as she thumped me on the back. “Don't you remem- ber me? I'm Marion Ostermann Niblick. I’m buying a new broom for my house. My husband insists on my doing my own housework. I've decided to buy a broom. For my house? Oh, no! For my husband! Which one did I marry? No— not that one—still another—no—another one—after that —and I could still hear her talk as I walked on over to a counter where Irene Maurer was selling a new hair-curling iron—her own hair being as straight as a stick, you know.