Prescott High School - Hassayamper Yearbook (Prescott, AZ)

Page 26 text:

v vy Standing:—-J A MES FARLEY. EVEHETT MEADE. DONALD BURMTSTEK. CHARLES MeLANE. ALBERT CRAWPORI). ED- WARD ZEIGLER. PETER McNULTY. WILLIAM LLOYD. JAMES LOWRY. HAROLD HOWARD. Sitting:— INA REIBLING. MARIAM DOUDNA, MAUDE HENRY. MABEL STEVENS, NYDIA ACKER. (From left to ritfht).

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 JUNIOR ET THE EYES of the dying eagle gaze on the rising sun. Ye-yes, look at us Seniors! Well, we came, we saw, we conquered; and today the numerals 1912 stand emblazon- ed on the history of good old Prescott High in golden letters whose radience Time can never dim. Mention the name Junior to a Freshman, and he will dodge behind the nearest telegraph pole. Ask a wise and learned Senior about what common center the entire Universe revolves and he will grow white and answer in a strained voice, “The Juniors. What need to speak of the six mole-skin clad warriors that represented us on the gridiron, or our over-whelming victory in the Track meet? What need to speak of our brilliant stars in the class-room, or our classy girls, Thespians and orators? We would by only too happy to see, in the future, some class come into the school that would equal, if not surpass, us. But, we realize, dear classes, that this is the unattainable. And now, we will draw upon our wisdom and give a word of advice to each and all of you. Freshmen—we bless you, dear children.—Let us attempt to convey to your infantine minds the one and only Short Cut to Graduation; catch a pony” and ride for dear life. Sophomores, you will soon be coming into a great respon- sibility; you are soon to take into your youthful and inexper- ienced hands the reins that guide the Junior class. You will find many a chuck-hole in the road, but by following closely the broad, plain tracks that we have left, you will avoid many a jolt and brutal knock. To the Seniors we have nothing to say. To the teachers we can only say be cheered bv the knowl- edge we will return to P. H. S. next year.

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 ©PH@M®R LD SOL rains clown her unceasing flood of sunlight upon us from the very Zenith: we are in the noon-time of our High School career. We have no worries for the future: ' it onl.v holds for us a brimming cup of enjoy- ment, honor, and fame. The present is one long, protracted period of bliss. If we cast our eyes backward, our record glares and dazzles, and beside its radience. objects in the immediate vicin- ity appear dull, and inconspicuous. (Witness the Juniors. Cast your gaze along the row of seats that hold my noble classmen. Look at Lowry! A ’aughty ero. don't you know. Perfection's double alike at tearing a ten-foot hole through a mole-skin clad line, or doing the moon-light Romeo stunt. See Merritt, that husky concentration of Trish energy. Notice “Bumps Crawford. He’s—well, he's in love, so let him alone. Do not overlook Ine Reibling, in that next seat, (you never could, anyway) That glaring golden “P on her sweater tells the story of the rim-fired game she olaved against Flagstaff. See that fellow whose intelligent brows are wrinkled in a studious frown? That’s Zeigler. the hov with a “rep for burning the “mid-night oil.” That little black haired chap. The Right Honorable James P. Farley, is the school humorist, and general torment to girls. There are many more, too numerous to mention. Let it suffice to say that they are Sophomores, for that is a sufficient reccomendation in itself. And now, as we drop from our shoulders the cloak that we have borne upon them for the passed year: as we give up the title of Sophomore to those less worthy: we can truly say that we have left no stone unturned, nor made a single error during our brief tarriance at this station. K. C. B.