Schuylerville Central School - Schuyler Yearbook (Schuylerville, NY)

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A DESCRIPTION OF A COLONIAL HOTEL Overlooking the lower end of Lake Champlain, situated in the middle of a steep hill, stands an old decayed colonial hotel. Large trees keep the sunlight from the front entrance, while weeds and underbrush have grown around it. The outside of the building is weather-beaten and gray in color. The four round pillars show us that it was constructed in the Revolutionary days. Judging from its condition, we are certain that it has been deserted many years. The boards creak under us as we enter. On our right is a large reception room with a marble fireplace in the farther hall. Across the hall is another room from which we are able to see the lake. The kitchen and workshops are located in the rear. On the upper two floors are the bed chambers. Scraps of wall paper can be seen in different places. The floors are littered with paper, broken furni- ture, and plaster. In many places the floors are unsafe. We are glad to get out into the sunshine after exploring that forsaken place. Ernest Provost, 32. OWA TAGOO SIAM I stepped onto the escalator and entered the museum amid a tumult of emo- tions. It happened that there was a revolving door, the trap sprung, and I was caught inside. I found, however, that there were other captives and began to renew old acquaintances. The first person I encountered was a little lady who had been at one time a dressmaker's model. There were two others with her. friends perhaps. Here was a face that seemed familiar! Who could she be? Why, it couldn’t be, why yes, it certainly was! My, what a change! What could have happened to her hair? Now I knew the secret of her exquisite beauty—she had worn a wig in the years gone by. Traffic was jammed—it was almost impossible to step through. There were vehicles of all sorts—miniature carriages, wagons, ponies, automobiles, fire engines, and even trains in the clustered section. Finally I reached the art gallery. It certainly is a shame the way these modern folks neglect to visit such places. Here I renewed old friendships. I was alone except for an ex-soldier, who had lost a leg, perhaps in some battle, and who was on guard. The pictures took my fancy and I spent some time scrambling about. How uncomfortable that lady must feel wearing such a high collar. She appeared almost choked. My! what a small bodice that woman has, and such portly hips. I vow that girl wishes those tresses were bobbed. Can you imagine wearing such a beard as that elderly gentleman has? If 1 were his wife, in about two snips of the shears I “would end it all.” Why here is little Percival, “the dear child in his pretty velvet suit.” Oh, what bushy eyebroks that man has! I wonder if this is his wife? I’ll guarantee that she is “monarch of all she surveys.” Now I found myself in the library where there were volumes and volumes of books written in fine print. Here could be found atlases, magazines, newspapers, journals, and books of reference. There was the furniture department, with elaborate chandeliers swinging in space, bedsteads, tables, and chairs. Over further was the music department, with a roller organ and miniature piano in prominence. There were also drums, cornets, flutes, horns, harmonicas, and all kinds of sheet music to be found. In the millinery department was a perfectly charming hat—a pheasant gave up its life to grace its crown—on display. In my wanderings, last of all, I came to the express office where numerous trunks, suitcases, and all sorts of baggage was scattered about. These reminded me that it was time to depart, and with reluctance I closed the door on my attic friends. Mary H. Cudahy, ’32. Twenty-four

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TOUCHDOWN OR BREAKDOWN It is a wonderful October day with the leaves the color of scarlet and gold, and a hint of winter in the air. Our scene opens in one of the three parts into which Gaul is said to have been divided way back in fifty-four B. C. A glorious panorama unfolds before our eyes and we see the stands crowded with people. In the east of the great horseshoe Rome’s imperial band is crashing out martial music. A portly senator waves his arms and ten thousand rooters bellow incoherent phrases in perfect unison. In the western part of the stadium the motley crowd of the Helvetians eat peanuts, and discuss return of prosperity. A simultaneous crash of sound from both sides announces the arrival of the teams which come trotting on the freshly marked field. High up in the observation tower especially built for this occasion the radio announcer and camera men survey the scene of the coming struggle. Captains Caesar and Dumnorix meet in the center of the field for the toss up while cops and motorcycles clear the field of bearded Gauls in horned derbies and coonskin togaed senators in high heeled rubber boots. The teams are lined up; the legionnaires of Rome in iron helmets, nail studded boots, and kilts; the Helvetii in whiskers, cross garters and leather vests; the referee in white shorts, short fur toga, and with his cranium shaved and gilded. This latter precaution is taken for protection. They’re off! The ball is kicked. Caesar interferes for Clodius and Catiline, and Cicero makes a forty-yard run. He ’s tackled and the teams come to a deadlock in the middle of the field. Score, first quarter, 0 to 0. Score, second quarter, 0 to 0. Score, third quarter, 0 to 0. Score, fourth quarter, 0 to 0. until in the last minute of play Cicero grabs a forward pass from Lucius Cotta and handing it to Caesar takes out two peeved Helvetii. Ctesar, finding the ball in bis hands, tucks it under bis arm and runs. Ten! Thirty! Fifty yards to a touchdown. With angry shouts the rooters of the Helvetii drown out the ending gun and storm the Roman stands. Rome retaliates and the curtain falls on a swirling, swarming, struggling mass of angry men. Johnny stood up and rubbed bis sleepy eyes. With a start and a sigh he dropped the book, “The Fighting Fullback,” to the floor and with a lugubrious expression in his eyes picked up a small black volume entitled “Caesar in Gaul.” James Cochrane, '32. Twenty-three

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MY ATLANTIC TRIP April 21, 1928. What a hurry and bustle! About noon we started for Southampton in the little twelve-passenger coach. When we got there, we went to a friend's house for the night. At one o'clock the next day we set sail for the United States. We stopped at France to pick up passengers, mail, and freight; then we started out over the ocean. hor six days and six nights the Berengaria” thrust herself through the waves of the Atlantic. On the third day of the trip we saw another steamer with whistles blowing and band playing. It was then I began to get seasick. On the fourth da)' we saw some whales in the water, and on the sixth day we saw New York. This was the happiest moment of my trip. We passed the lightship. Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. At last we docked at nine o’clock P. M. I got off the boat at about ten o’clock. We went around the city for a while. At last we went to bed in a New York hotel, tired, nearly exhausted, but happy. Fred Campion, '34. HITCH-HIKING As you stand there in the pouring rain feeling very downcast and gloomy, you wonder why you did it. Here you are with wet clothes sticking to you and in danger of catching cold and yet you thought that yours was an exceptionally fine idea, when you announced to your mother that you were going “hitch-hiking.” You left the house whistling and with a spring in your walk that denoted long endurance, but much to your consternation you find it was false strength and hope that you derived from your afternoon nap. The wonderful dream of beautiful valleys and nature's wonders that so easily could be seen and realized from hitch-hiking is slowly passing away like a burning stick upon which the flames lived and thrived hungrily, then flickered, wavered, and went out. You! A great big healthy boy letting such a little thing as your thoughts and wild dreams lead you into such an uncomfortable, if not serious, situation as this. If it had been a friend who had induced you, you might have taken out your spite on him. Well, when you have sputtered and fumed until your throat is dry and you are lacking for words, you turn slowly around and plod along through the mud and telling the world in general that if anyone would like to try your foolhardy experience, he should remember to bring his raincoat. Everything is bound to have two sides to it. That means you can turn it wrong side out, and clouds are no exception. Alden Burnett, '32. Twenty-five