Paxton High School - Reflector Yearbook (Paxton, IL)

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CLASS PROPHECY Are you getting tired? Why didn't you ask me that three miles ago? I’m disappointed myself! We've been tramping thru these woods all morning and we haven't found a solitary arrow head. It’s your own fault. You would come. I must say this is a fine way to spend our honeymoon. I'm certainly having a wonderful time! Now, dear, don't get sarcastic. Maybe we 11 find something along this old Indian trail yet. Hello! What s this? About one hundred yards ahead of us stood an old hut. It was not deserted, however, for a stream of thin blue smoke rose from the chimney. We approachd eagerly, our interest aroused. My husband's thoughts were, Maybe it's a hermit. My thoughts, Now I can sit down and rest. But our knockings on the door were futile. Since it was inhabited we had no right to enter, of course. We were about to give up in despair, when around the corner of the hut appeared an old Indian, bent and ragged and smelling strongly of herbs. Tegus! he cried in the language of the Crowes. What are you doing here? My husband, who, when a boy, had lived on a Crowe reservation, where his grandfather was the government agent, understood him. He responded to the man in his native tongue. The old Indian was overwhelmed with joy upon finding someone with whom he could converse. He ushered us into the hut, all the while carrying on a rapid fire conversation with my husband. Of course I could not understand a word of it and was frightfully bored. I guess I showed it, for I noticed they were talking about me. The old man winked, walked over to a shelf, and took down a long, beautifully carved pipe. Carefully he laid it in my lap. No, thank you, I don't smoke.” 1 thought it a joke of my husband's and was disgusted. Why did he persist in bothering me when I was so tired ? But my husband quickly explained to me. It was a magic pipe. If one smoked it, one could see in the smoke arising from it anything one wished. Try it, said my husband. What would you like to see? The old medicine man was filling the pipe with some sweet smelling herbs. 1 was interested in spite of myself. What did I want to see? Ah! 1 knew! I would like to see my old class-mates, where they were and what they were doing. I settled down comfortably on a couch of skins and took a puff. Here goes, old pipe, if you’re so good, show me our dear President Greenan. To my surprise the veil of smoke parted and before me stood Charley and the King of England. The King was signing a piece of paper. (Charley had his pockets filled with Irish confetti.) The document read, From now on, Ireland is a free nation. Charley always was good at getting what he wanted. The next scene was that dear little stucco cottage, over on the boulevard near the swimming pool at Gibson. Some dirty little children were making mud pies on the steps. Come in here. Junior and Gordon! said a woman coming to the door. Page Twenty-Nine

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CLASS POEM In an Indian settlement A tribe we see. Plainer than others Of this country. The tribe is that Of the Senior Class, Trying so hard Each thing to surpass. Their tactics of warfare Against all wrong Enable the settlement To sing a song; A song of triumph O’er all enemies. This tribe we call The Old Seminee.” They started young In this world of strife To find a better Way in life; They've wandered and worried Until good success Has caused great pleasure And much happiness. They’ve triumphed o’er all Of the tribes in town; They’ve carried honors And they've earned a crown; Their lives have been good---- They’ve succeeded in all; Now may each one Let fame never fall. May their lives reflect In the mirror of life. And may you look upward In times of strife; Look up to the image This mirror reflects And discard the things Their image rejects. —Evelyn Carr, '26. Page Twenty-Eight

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Hello, Mabel, old girl,” 1 tried to say, but my voice wouldn't work. Well, well! So I wasn’t to be allowed to speak to my visions! After that 1 didn’t try to. Next I beheld a brilliantly lighted stage and heard beautiful music. It was the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and there in the front row were Frances Lindley and Melvin Lindahl. They were musical in High School, but they had certainly advanced since then. As I was listening to the last strains, some foreign notes floated to my ears. Jazz! Red hot! And there were Dick Carson and Jug Burkard and their famous Hotsy Totsy band (increased in size.) In front of them was Pearl Anderson, their entertainer, tearing off the latest steps to the strains of Nice Girls Carry Parachutes. I might mention that Harry Swenson, famous butter and egg man, was in the bald-headed row. I wonder why? The following scene was that of a lecture hall. There was Vernette Larson, as pretty as ever, lecturing to a large group of people. And there towards the back of the hall stood Prof. Kernon Watts, principal of P. C. H. S. It was Teachers’ Institute. Yes sir, there they were! Ruth Okey, Ethel Johnson, Lela Hand, Laura Orr, Aline Kroon, and Lorene Lindgren. All school marms. Terribly hard-boiled looking. And they were such sweet young things! As the vision changed I heard a cry of anguish and terror as of someone in pain. There with a large knife, streaming with blood, stood Dr. W. O. Mc-Quiston (Old Shylock). As you know he is Dr. Lorenz worst enemy. He is trying to prove to the world that bloodless surgery is bunk and that the more you cut away, the better the man. (I don t doubt but that some men would be better if they were completely cut away). Between swathes, Oty had time to gaze longingly into the eyes of his beautiful nurse, Frances Anderson. I noticed that she wore a gall stone set in platinum on her left hand. The scene changed to a beautiful, richly furnished. Oriental boudoir. There, almost secure in velvet cushions, reclined Mile. Mildred Allen, famous actress and idol of all. And do you like vinegar on your spinach? Evelyn Carr, reporter for the Chicago Tribune, was asking. Oh, dear! yawned Mildred. I’ll call my press agent. Maurice! Mug Johnson entered. Maurie, do I like vinegar on spinach? “No. you like horse-radish on strawberries though.” He always was ready with a cute answer, wasn’t he? Then came Gene Martin, World’s Great Baseball Pitcher. He was winding up and he threw the ball straight at me, but it didn't hit me. I thought it was going to, but you see, as I said before. I’m not in the picture. Over in a field near by was Eva Mull twirling the old ball. She's woman’s champion and champion of all the men except Gene. (He’s still king, but his throne is tottering.) • I heard the roaring of a motor and a big Packard aeroplane whizzed into view. There piloting the craft was Gordon Johnson, retired druggist (?). With him were his friends, Raymond King and Donald Swanson. They must have been returning home from a party. They looked sleepy. In fact, Raymond was hanging over the edge so far I was afraid he was going to fall out. I m sorry to say that Donald and Raymond have no professions. They have floated through life on their good looks and their friends' pocketbooks. I suppose every class must have its idle rich. Pajre Thirty