Smithfield High School - Shield Yearbook (Smithfield, NC)

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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

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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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Boyette giving orders — my, he is swift! His manner of giving orders reminds me of of our old coach, Rice. He ' s getting them in right trim for the championship series. Oh horrors! Here ' s a hospital ward — a whole room full of cots. And do you see that dark-haired girl in the nurse ' s uniform, bending over the man who has the Rudolph Valentino face? That ' s Pauline Rand. Well she ' s happy, I know, for that ' s exactly what she wanted to do. Another opera house? Yes, that ' s just what I see, and a beautiful girl with dark wavy hair is walking down the stage. She is going to sing. Oh! that is Arab Hooks! And now, children, look closely, see the small girl with curly hair and a smiling face ' — that ' s Rose Grantham dressed in a long white apron and cap. She ' s standing in the door of a famous physician ' s office. Evidently she is his private nurse. In this one I see the interior of a day coach on a train. There — do you see that man with the Boston bag and the notebooks on the seat beside him? That is Ben Baker. Judging from appearances he is a traveling salesman. Here in this one I see another schoolroom. Presiding over her pupils with dignity is Carrie Young. She is teaching History in a Penny manner. Another bubble, and this time we have a book — a very popular novel. Do you see the name Marjorie Johnston? She was editor-in-chief of The Eagle. Her genius has reached a very fitting climax. A large enclosed car is approaching. The Driver is Carrie Parish. She is coming home I suppose and I guess she has been shopping. What has this to do with what she has become? As the car passes out of sight I see the name Driver Co. on the back, and then I know. Here is a lecture room at Harvard. Before the class stands Henry Royall, a professor of History. This was always his highest ambition. I am agreeably surprised at this; I always thought he would be an English instructor because he used to make our heads swim with his big words. Next is a large sign painted in brilliant colors. Down at the left hand corner I see the words Caudill did it, and I am again surprised for I thought John would surely be a farmer. A radio! Some one is flashing the news on a screen as it is sent forth. Look, on the screen we see that Juanita Woody has become the star basketball player of the world and this is her fifth game. Here we have a newspaper. In it I see that Edna Hildebrand has resigned her position as drawing instructor in Boston and has opened a studio of her own in New York. There is a great demand for her sketches from life. Another school, just like yours; only this is in Raleigh. There they are— two girls who were the quietest of our class. They are Lily Daughtery and Myra Hill; they are teaching school as they wished to do. Here is the office of the North Carolina Mutual Building Loan Association at Wilson. At the desk I see a sleek, bob-haired girl chewing gum. She has a pencil and paper and is making funny little quirls all over the page. This must be shorthand as she- It ' s Nolia Gurley— is now pounding away on a typewriter. Ah! How beautiful! I see a vast stretch of land which is cultivated and cleared. Many acres of waving wheat and green vegetation can be seen in the distance. But look— over here by this building is Millard Stallings, and of course he is the owner of it all. What is this gigantic piece of machinery? It is all bolts and screws. By its side is a tall, slim man whom I recognize as Willard Lawrence. Judging from appearances he has become a mechanical engineer. (Continued on Page Fifty-eight) Page Twenty-eight