West High School - Senior Occident Yearbook (Rochester, NY)

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136 THE OCCIDENT cold enough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey. Though still treading the path of knowledge we crowned our junior year with a hop and the Shakespearean play, “As You Like It. This play, a big piece of work, was, like all else, a grand success. We must not overlook the two cham- pionships for all-round athletics, won these last two years. You will please note the scope of our abilities! And not two weeks ago was our senior dance and it is scarcely a week since our play, “Her Husband’s Wife. They spoke for themselves. Need we say more ? Thus have we gone,—ever successful, ever triumphant, ever generous, a class that need not be ashamed. Pardon our pride. We are proud of our record. Have we not a right to be? To convince you and end our course in a blaze of glory we hereby invite you all to a dance in the corridor at the close of this assembly—the music to be fur- nished by a real orchestra. Marian Huddleston Miller. “ Sir Oracle Hath Spoken! At last! Aeneas had returned from his vacation trip to Hades, where, amidst other good times, lie had his fortune told,—and now I might at last retire, with that piece of wedding cake under my pillow which, for wisest reasons, I had as yet refrained from eating—the cake (I mean). No sooner said, than done! A massive iron gate before me, swung slowly open and, in sheer astonishment, I gazed open-mouthed at the numbers above it—1-9-3-4. Something pushed me on. I entered. All of a sudden, I came to my senses and realized that Aeneas wasn’t the only one who should have the future revealed to him—tho surely I was in a far different locality. Everything was different—the first thing that hit my eye, instead of the river Styx, was a monstrous sign on top of a little shack, not far from the en- trance, which read, “C. C. C. and K. C. Co. What under the sun? My brain grew puzzled—of a sudden, the letters all unfolded, and I read, “Carl Chamber- lain, Curl and Kink Cure. Co.” Well! has it come to this, I sighed. I might have known. “O yes! replied a voice behind me— “you certainly might have!” I turned. What did I behold, but one of those long- haired, wandering, musing poets, with a huge label across the front of him, read- ing, “Sir Francis Scyfried—ex-noblc- inan! Behind him trailed a long string of the queerest figures, who were all likewise labelled. I stood there simply dumfounded. In absolute silence, they passed me by, and this is what I read: Marian H. Miller—Teacher of Alge- bra, Geometry, Trigonometry, Calculus and Kindergarten—ex-lunch car propri- etress. Anabelle Mullen—Anarchist—Watch out! Julia B. Snyder—Guaranteed Gover- ness. Milton B. Steinman—Principal of North High School. Helen M. Stein—Now Showing at the “Vic. Wilbur Cooper—D. D. (interpret them as you wish). Harvey K. Hunt—Second Sawdust- Trail. Ruth C. Kumcrow—Housekeeper— ex-suffragette. Here the procession suddenly van- ished and I was as puzzled as before. I started forth again, and the scenery changed completely. I found myself in the middle of a crowded street. Everybody was staring upward and so I did, too. Oh, it was merely an aeroplane floating around above the traffic. No sooner had I com-

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THE OCCIDENT 135 Treasurer Floyd Owen President, Carl Chamberlain Vice-President Secretary, William Taft May Schenck CLASS HISTORY One wintry day four years ago some one opened the gates to higher knowl- edge and the class of January 1917, made its debut in West High School. While the girls did not actually appear in socks, still, many wore white stock- ings and the boys—Carl- Chamberlain, Vincent Weiser, Floyd Owen, William Taft, Forrest Dewey, Harvey Hunt and all the others—were still shivering in short trousers. Our freshmenn year was the last of the old study-room regime in which the teacher conducted a class in the front of the room and the supposedly studying youths and maidens conducted a circus in the back. Next come the big general study halls. We have survived that experiment and now we are about to be introduced to supervised study. Thus, you see, we have passed through the three great changes in West High School. But more! We were the last class to get in under the six months' freshman biology requirement. To us, too, was given the first fresh- man reception. (Know ye, oh Freshmen, that we established this noble custom!) It was our ever original class that con- ceived and carried out with glorious suc- cess the unique idea of a poverty party in our sophomore year. We flatter our- selves that the clothing on that occasion has never been rivaled before or since. Yet one thing more in that second year a sleigh ride! The big features of that were our hands and feet. It was

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THE OCCIDENT 137 menced to wonder who that might be, than someone said, “O, that’s only Gil- bert Taylor out for a little exercise.” Well, I never, what next? Chancing to look across the street I received a shock, for there was a mon- strous dry-goods store with the names ‘‘Wilkins, Smy and Smith Co.” painted across the whole front. “Good for the girls,” I thought and entering the store, I looked about with due curiosity. Rather bewildered, I approached a floor- walker—tall and gaunt—but oh my!— where had I seen him before? Some- where, something seemed to say— Don Williamson.” Well, I never’d have be- lieved it—it’s a suitable job all right. Again all of a sudden the scene changed, and I was alone. Afar off in the distance I heard an awful rattle and soon something that looked like a Ford drove into sight. On the side was painted in huge letters—Dr. H. Ross McNamee—gold-fish specialist. A head stuck out of the back—and who should I recognize but Floyd Owen—chief as- sistant M. D. and ex-comedian? In a second it was gone and I turned only to behold a group of Greek maidens danc- ing on the green. Again that mysteri- ous voice echoed. “Mildred Mason, Es- telle Schoonover, Doris Fuller and Kath- erine Sullivan—professionals at it.” I received another shock right then and there. Afar off in the distance I beheld the gate which I had entered, and started eagerly toward it, for I thought I’d had almost enough. Suddenly that long string of figures appeared again, and in the passing instant I caught these words: Ruth E. Strong—Actress—ex-poet- ess. Madeline M. Walsh—Mrs. Somebody —ex-princess. Vincent T. Crowley—Detective—ex- pick-pocket. Gertrude M. Hall—Pianist at the “Grand”—don’t miss it. Winifred C. Anderson—Spinster—ex- book agent. Vincent C. Wiser—Missionary—ex- calamity howler. George F. Winegard—Storekeeper— ex-president. Arthur H. Thompson—Lectures, in any language other than English! William Taft—Chief Electrician in the S. P. skating pavilion—ex-lawyer. Herbert E. Spencer—Bachelor—ex- Morinon. Helen R. Day—Housekeeper—ex- waitress. Adelaide Dark—Society speaker—ex- washerwoman. Maida M. Judd—Chief Cook and Bot- tle Washer W. H. S. Elmer Sachs—Mayor—ex-missionary. Gladys Hanse—Heiress—ex-waitress. Charles W. Perrine—Policeman—ex- shoplifter. Rhea E. Kelley—Social Secretary— ex-waitress. As suddenly as before they all van- ished but still in the distance appeared three trudging figures bearing a single worn out label—“Hopeless Old Maids” Mildred Ford, Margaret Nichols—and, oh horrors,—alas, too true, myself. Terrified and indignant I rushed to- ward the gate where a lone figure stood. “Tell me,” I shouted, “what does it all mean?” Slowly the figure pointed to the numbers above my head—1917 and murmured—“Will you go back and leave the fleeting shadows of the . future?” Turning I saw his label—“Forrest W. Dewey, Farmer, Ex-Society Bug.” With one final gasp I pushed through the gate. It closed with an awful clang and I awoke—but listen— Dreams on Wedding Cake are bound to come to reality. She—What do you like about me? He—The other arm, till I rest this one.