Waltham High School - Mirror Yearbook (Waltham, MA)

Page 18 text:

12 T H E M I R R O R CLASS PROPHECY-1930 ACH tick of the clock makes us a few minutes older. SW, The ,minutes soon grow into hours the hours grow into days, and the days into years. I was emphatically reminded of this fact by a certain little envelope I had received. This envelope contained an invitation to the dedica- tion of the new Waltham Senior High School: new in fact but not in theory. After twenty long years a dream had become a reality. In conjunction with the festivities at the dedication, the Class of 1930 was to hold a reunion-the twentieth an- niversary of their escape from the fastness of 'Waltham Senior High School. On the night of May 16, 1950, bedecked in my evening clothes, I set out for the new high school. The night was dark, as are all nights. In fact, it was a normal night. As I made my way along Bacon Street, I made out the form of a person through the encircling gloom. It was the gigantic form of Salvatore Rizzo. He served as a body- guard for the frail Lorimer Hanselpacker, now a butter and egg man . Sal was searching for Lorimer whom he had lost in the dark. Just as I was going up the walk to the school, a car drew up at the curb. A man got out burdened down with a huge satchel. There was something familiar about him. It was none other than Alfonso Castellano. He told me that he was a salesman of cosmetics and was going to try to interest the women teachers in his wares. ' The school was a masterpiece. It was planned by that great architect Phillip Jackson, who acquired a taste for neatness and symmetry from his school work. You per- haps can remember what masterpieces his geometry pa- p6I'S WQTG. W 1

Page 17 text:

THE MIRROR A Class Ode HE King of Life was holding court that day, NM And you and I were numbered 'mong the throng. Many a mile we'd traveled far, and now To the great castle door we came-and stopped. Before us stood the beautiful Great Hopes Conversing with Lost Chan-ces on the path. Next passed we the stern sentry, Character, Whose gleaming armor shone As clean and clear as the bright sun above. The halls of Education we traversed Which gleamed with armoured knights of culture fine, Then down the steps of Failure faltered we, While each step sneered and leered, Or so it seemed. Not daunted, on we strode past frowning Fate And to the King, by jewelled Chance were led. High throned the mighty King before us sat Surrounded by his noble courtiers. 'Twas quiet there and sweet as sylvan dellg Green moss had softly grown around the throneg The flowers of life were swaying gently in the breeze, While music softly played to us the strains Of Dreams-not idle, useless, but quite real. And thus the King more knowledge did impart: Advice I give you: follow these new paths That lead o'er windy hills and stormy seas Through bright and sun-kissed fields and moors of gold Perpetual curving on to wondrous views. Far in the distance gleams the noble light Success. Strike out, push on, it guides your way. His wise instructions. done, the King arose As from his throne above he smiled, And gave his benediction as we passed. Dorothy Griswold.

Page 19 text:

THE MIRROR 13 My quest for beauty was arrested by a truly brilliant sight. A detail of neatly uniformed policemen were lined up on either side of the steps. They were under the super- vision of their capable chief Richard Wear of Senior Play fame. Close to him was his righthand man, Robert John- son, bedeck-ed with a sporty little mustache. Amongst the ranks of the city's finest I recognized James Crowe, George Gannon, Alexander Kann and Howard Badger. They lived up to the old spirit of law and order of Wal- tham High. With military precision and smartness that would give credit to West Pointers, they saluted and marched into the school. Through the evening air there came floating to my ears la familiar sound, the sound commonly known as a razzberrie . I turned around and there, leaning on a broom was my old pal, Ralph Andrews. That lad cer- tainly was a sweeping success, janitor of the new high school. My nostrils detected the scent of delicate perfume and before my eyes floated a vision of beauty. Standing in front of me was Mabel Frost, the happy spouse of Carl Anderson. Andy is the professor of dramatic arts at the University of Chicago. His voice had acquired a cultured and feminine tone. Strolling nonchalantly along enjoying the beauty of the new edifice of learning. I was brought to an abrupt stop by a wild-looking chap who seized my arm. He was unkempt and ragged. His face was covered with a dense beard and his hair was long and matted. With a voice that quavered and cracked he whispered in my ear, Women, I hate them . 'Twas then I recognized Peters the her- mit, alias George Perna. His wife, Dorothy Griswold, had run off with a traveling salesman. The salesman was Cleveland Thomas. Life was bitter for George.