Smithfield High School - Shield Yearbook (Smithfield, NC)

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Class Son: ■ ROM the first grade upward we hare traveled B Until at last we ' ve reached our goal. Our studies, great and small We ' ve conquered one and all — That ' s why we are graduating now. Chorus: Now we guess That without S. ff. S. Our future would have never looked so bright. When we ' re slack She pats us on the hack, And ' is always showing us what is right. Her name ive ' ll cherish, It shall never perish. Upon it we ' ll gain success. While alive, the class of ' 25 Will ahvays, always love old S. H. 8. From noiv we ' ll follow different courses, But with you our tho ' t will ever he. And we know unless We always do our hest We can never win a victory. Ben Bakku Paoe Twenty-six

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trip around the world. Their education showed quite an improvement after our short visits to Iceland, Ireland, Japan and Hawaii. ' 25. The brightness of our Junior year not at all crushed, was a great help in developing us into dignified Seniors. Counting ourselves thirty-three strong, we set about electing the following officers : Worth Boyette, President ; Arab Hooks, Vice-president ; Lawrence Stancil, Secretary ; Rose Grantham, Treasurer — as good a corps of officers as ever was found. Rejoicing in the possession of our Penny, we have started hoeing our last row. Soaring upward is the motto we have selected. We have already successfully managed a booth at the fair and we are now editing an annual — the first one the school has had. Our class members are again starring in athletics, the girls still under their admired coach. Miss Wilson. As for amusements, we are looking forward with pleasure to a much-longed-for banquet given by the Juniors. In fact, these sad expressions on our faces, just at this time, are not due to any dissatisfaction we feel about ourselves — that ' s only a hint to the Juniors that we ' re longing for a banquet! Careie Young — Historian.

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Class Prophecy o |NE warm afternoon in late May, I was slowly wending my way homeward from a long, tiresome day at the office. Passing a small shop, I glanced at a calendar just inside the window and was suddenly reminded that it was the twenty-ninth of the month. Almost time for another pay check— how good that seemed! For although I loved my work for its own sake, I also welcomed remuneration for it. Then like a bolt out of a clear sky another thought made itself clear in my mind— this was the twenty-ninth of May, and surely that was a milestone in my memory. How on earth could I have forgotten? My own High School graduation anniversary! This was 1934— just nine years ago I could have sworn that I ' d always remember— and now it had almost slipped by me unnoticed. I hurried on homeward, thinking of old pals and classmates, and wondering what had become of each one. Opening the door on reaching home, I was greeted by my two little nieces, Clara and Rose. Excited over my coming, they both shouted at once, Oh, Auntie we ' re glad you ' ve come, ' cause mother ' s busy and we ' re so tired of playing alone. Please tell us a story before supper — oh, please. This was their usual greeting, and I had told them so many that my supply was completely exhausted. Moreover, I was tired, and not in the mood for story-telling. But just then I had a happy idea— an easy way to entertain them for a few minutes. Run, Clara, and get a bowl of soapsuds and we ' ll blow bubbles, and that will be more interesting than a story. I sat by the window with one niece seated on each side of me. Then against the rainbow colors of the fading sunset I blew a large bubble. It floated toward the window and I blew another. How beautiful they were— opalescent, iridescent, changing, I could almost see air castles and fairy princesses in them. Another idea— I should tell them what I saw in each bubble and that would indeed be a story after all. I blew a bubble, and looked. In it I thought I pictured— not a castle and a fairy princess as I had first thought— but instead a very familiar sight. It was a schoolroom. At the blackboard a dignified, dark-haired girl was standing. She was writing. Explaining what I saw to my nieces, we together tried to make out the words. In a few seconds we could see that they were French. And the teacher, children, is an old classmate of mine— Maude Blackman. Maude Blackman a French teacher, I mused. This was indeed exciting and in- teresting. I would blow more bubbles and more and more, and perhaps I could find all my old classmates. I blew again— and then again, and, as if it were a story indeed, I peered into the heart of each bubble as a true seer might, and told my eager listeners what I saw. Look, children, with me. I see an opera house— a great audience. On the stage seated at the piano is a slim little girl whose profile is somehow very familiar. She is turning this way, and she is smiling at her audience. It is Sarah Adams, the ' goat ' of the class of ' 25, and our most musical member. I started with surprise at what I was seeing, then peered eagerly into another bubble. See, there ' s a football game! No, its only a practice, for there ' s Worth Page Twenty-sevkn