South High School - Black and Gold Yearbook (Winston Salem, NC)

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bnooooo' HISTORY OF IUNE CLASS, 1937 As we near the close of our four years in high school, the words of the old song: Along the River of Time we glide, The swiftly flowing resistless tide. brings to our minds the thought that in many ways our Class of 1937 is like a river rolling through the country of high school, not a mighty river, as Carlyle designates the Shakespeares and Miltons in the country of Thought, but a modest stream doing its best to enrich student life. As a tiny rivulet, its springs deep in the soil of primary and grammar schools, we as a freshman class found our course headed toward the borderlands of the Richard Reynolds field of endeav- or. Coming as we did from various schools, we were indeed as a babbling brook from a thousand different sources. Ioyously we rushed on our way through our first year in high school land, gaining volume and strength as the days sped by. Sometimes we found the banks high that enclosed us-rules and regulations of Student Council, strict- er grading of papers than we had been accustomed to, daily testings and drillsg sometimes we found our way choked by weeds of ignorance of high school ways, time and again the rocks of Eng- lish grammar, Latin infinitives, originals in algebra threatened to impede our way: but, like Tennyson's brook, going on forever, widening here, narrowing there, we: came at length to the vale of Sopho- more days. Crowded in as we were between the high hills of Freshman sauciness and Iunior assurance, we found our way dif- ficult indeed and slow of progress. From our entrance upon high school territory having carried our share of the small boats of student activities, during our second year we were proud to dis- play upon the bosom of our sophomore river a greater variety of craft-more active participation in Council and Page one hundred fifty-two House, wider range of club interests, athletics, introduction into the delights of band, play-acting, and debating. By the time our course had rounded in- to Iunior channels, the influence of our river of learning was beginning to be felt in all the surrounding fields of high school lifez the eager freshmen came to sip of our sparkling waters of information, the sophomores deigned to take notice of the varied and valued cargoes displayed on our small crafts: high speed in typing, prizes in journalistic work, athletic starr- ing: even the lofty seniors occasionally strolled down to our flowering banks. Through the devious windings of our freshman, sophomore' and junior years, one clear song our river sang: HON! ON! to the wide meadows of senior privileg- es! And high above the other voices sounded the glad notes of our thrice-cho- sen leader, Charles Martin. At length, into the deeper channel of senior year swept our sparkling river. On either side stretched the broad mea- dows of influence, watered by a thou- sand shining rills. Crowned with gar- lands of praise, senior crafts plied up and down our broad river-crafts of pub- lications, piloted by Lawson Withers, Sam Smith, Mildred Davis, Peggy Dean, Paul Earlyg of sports, bearing the ban- ners of Bill Vogler, Steve Forrest, Christ- ian Siewers, Leonard Darnell, Rosemary Cody, Mildred Swain, Elizabeth Carrollp of Dramatics starred by Bob Cohn and Margaret Simpson. Amidst busy crafts bearing daily lessons, senior responsibilit- ies, grind on the athletic field, in the de- bating hall, and behind the foot-lights of the auditorium, lighter skiffs carried cargoes on Iunior-Senior dance, picnics, picture-takings, National Honor Society Initiation. But the river has its end When it meets the oceans tide, fContinued on page 2021 BLACK AND GOLD

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Luca, l857iWM H19 5Zg,,s,,, PROPHECY OF IUNE CLASS It did not seem like a dream, neither did it appear as a mirage or an hallucina- tion, but then there's a possibility that it was, for my guide and I had been travelling continually for nine days in the vast waste and stabbing colds of the Cfobi desert in inner Mongolia. I was on a scouting trip for Lord Henry Bun- combe-Powell who was to establish a base camp at a favorable location and then work out from it in his archaeologi- cal surveys. As yet we had not found a centrally located situation nor a favora- ble one. Lord Henry was a flighty old buzzard and would have stopped at noth- ing--not even my head. Woe unto me if the camp were not precisely as he wished it to be! But to my story ..,.. Suddenly I saw upon the cheerless horizon a dense line of softly moving objects, appearing almost as swirling clouds of dust raised by some huge legion of horses, guns, and men, As my guide and I drew nearer, objects took shape- human beings, each at some particular work! I prodded my ragged little pony nearer. Ah, yes, they were people! Look! Look there! I screeched to my guide. Do you see anything? He turned, stared at me from those lean, immobile, almond eyes of his and replied. No, master. See nothing. I drew my hand across my eyes, and when I withdrew it, that. . . that-I knew not what to call it-was still there. And this time I recognized these persons as persons whom I had once known, as per- sons whom I knew in high school! Side by side in endless line they stretched into the air, steel-like air, smacking of snow and dreary cold. I only recall a few as my memorv delights in playing pranks on my brain. We stop- ped our ponies. I gaped. There was Christian Siewers, massive but business-like, thumbing through a hoard of papers--big excutive personified, president of Siewers Amalgamated Steel Inc., according to a bronze plaque on BLACK AND GOLD the lavish desk. His office was all dra- peries, deep carpets, and gleaming furni- ture. Clad in a bathing suit of sky, clear blue was Miss America of 1941 Rose- mary Cody, now probably a career- woman in modeling. I 'ioh-edf' and ah-ed, and gasped. My guide was completely bewildered. He muttered a word that meant ghost and was silent. And then, attired in all the regalia of his office-derby, cigar, flaming tie, dia- monds-was Lawson Withers, politi- cal boss. Quite a character, He- Lawson Withers. Lucy Mae Reavis, the toast of R. I. R. in her day, now seemed satisfied to be a home-body and look after the kiddies. As I saw her she was bustling about a tiny kitchen, without doubt, preparing lunch for hubby-dear. Home! oh sweet, sweet home! And who should be next but Dick Cobb, Tom Edwards, Charles Martin, and Bill Vogler in a pose from their latest movie Why Do People Call Me Handsome? or was it A Symphony in Masculine Beautyu? I do not remember. Then, with a gulp, I saw Sue Forrest, Madeleine Hayes, Dorothy Sink, Martha Iohnston, and Catherine Harrell, still to- gether, mind you, It seemed that they were the backbone of the Society for the Prevention of Hot Radio Music. Before a microphone lounged Samuel X. Smith, Mr. X to you and to feminine hearts all over America who, by the way, had fallen in love with his ultra-ultra magnificent visage and voice, now master of ceremonies on the program advertising Nelson-Emerson-Libby and Sallie, you know-Neurotic Pink Liver Pills for the liver. Robed in leopard skins and fierce knives were Steve Forrest, Bill Sprunt, lack Brown, lim Gray, Ray Proctor, Iohn Prcvost, Wilfred Hahn, Clay Shields, fContinued on page 2l2j Page one hundred Hfty 'hrec I .