Westerly High School - Westlyan Yearbook (Westerly, RI)

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TIIK SENIOR YEAR HOOK 21 to her—I couldn’t tell; for suddenly the water rippled and grew still. Was this all I was to see? No. That strange ripple began again and I saw a chemist in a smock pouring strange liquids into a test tube. She looked up and I saw the face of—Vera Campbell. The picture changed. Fire! Fire! Smoke belched from a burning building. In an upper window a woman thrust her head out and stretched her arms appealingly. The suspense was terrible—would no one save her? Ah—at last—the fire truck. The gallant chief dashed up a ladder and helped the woman to the ground. The chief pushed the heavy hat back and I saw Evelyn Lowry. Next I saw a race-track. Round and round the horses went. It was wildly exciting while it lasted, but it was soon over and the winner was presented with the cup. The winner was Lillian Matson. Races seemed to be the order of the day, for next I saw the hundred-yard dash of the Olympic games, won by Gladys Palmer. Speedboats always have held a thrill for me and the race I saw next surpassed all others. It was won by a titian-topped slip of a girl—Maryann Crandall. The next picture showed me Niagara Falls—raging, surging, swelling. And over this torrent, balanced lightly on a tight-rope, with a parosol in her hand, was Louise Cook. I trust she reached the other side safely—the picture changed much too quickly for me to see. I seemed to be up in the air next. Oh yes, in a dirigible! And the pilot—the pilot—was Julia Irish. What next? The navigator strolled into view’ and it was Jimmy Fiori. A large policeman was standing back to in the next picture and as he, I beg her pardon, she, turned, I saw Rickey Teutsch. An ancient Ford went rattling by at a terrific clip. Rickey blew her whistle but to no effect—it rattled on. Suddenly along came a motorcycle cop to save the day. And the old Ford stopped, while the driver received a ticket. What was this? The motorcycle cop was Eleda Langworthy. At this moment a big bus went by and the driver waved to the policeman. That driver was Helen Doney. These women carrying on the work of the world were doing fine things, but they wrent too fast for me. The bowl apparently divined my thoughts for that ripple began and I found myself gazing at a barber shop. It was by no means an ordinary one for it was managed by Brunei Novak and his staff of husky Hindoo hair-bobbers. I next saw an orphanage for Hindoo children managed and directed by the gentle Sammy Goldberg. Then I saw a swreet-faced missionary teaching Hawaiian children. The title of the paper she held wras The Evils of the Dance— and this missionary was Virginia Prescott.

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20 Till-: SMMOR YEAR BOOK CLKSS 444 4 PROPHECY While I was conducting my experiments in Buenos Aires, in an attempt to graft a squirtless grapefruit from the California peach and the alligator pear, I happened to look into the window of a nearby shop run by one of those Indian medicine men. In it, amid the jumble of stones, iron jewelry, and glass trinkets, a bowl particularly attracted my attention. It was made of glass, the colors of which were accentuated by the rays of the sun. I entered the shop in order to examine the bowl more closely, and much to my surprise, I found that it was filled with pink water. The medicine man told me that it was an ancient prophecy bowl used by the tribe of Kismet, and when the words “Clotho, Atropos, Lachesis” were pronounced over it, strange things would be revealed. The mystery of it all appealed to my imagination, so I purchased the bowl, and hurriedly took it to my room. Eagerly I pronounced the fatal words “Clotho, Atropos, Lachesis,” and looked into the bowl. A queer ripple began at the edge and spread to the center— then the water was still and clearly a picture was revealed. I saw a miniature picture of a circus—perfect in every detail— and all the figures moved. First of all came the big parade. A queer little clown came along driving a huge car. Merciful heavens! The clown was Skipper DePlacido—and that car was her Stude-baker. The next picture was of a snake charmer, garbed as a Turk. As I looked closer, I recognized Babe Itchkawich. High above, on a flying trapeze, was a slim figure. A close-up showed Judy Williams. Who was that man in striped waistcoat and top-hat calling one and all to visit the wonderful side-show? Not—not—it was— Jack Tobin. This wonderful bowl followed his direction and of all the strange monstrosities of the side-show, it revealed the fat lady. It was Claire Fraquelli. Was this metamorphosis a joy or a heart-ache

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TIIE SKXIOK YEAR BOOK England. A foggy day! An open field! Cheering crowds. A soccer game in progress! And the valiant captain was none other than Bill Lawson. The next scene was in Luxembourg. I saw a great crowd of people, lining both sides of the street. Down the center, moved the carriage of the President, and in the carriage was the American ambassador, Bob Briggs. Brr . . . icebergs—snow—igloos. Who wTas that in furs, attempting to sell an electric fan to the Eskimaux? Williard Hoxie. Isn’t that just like a man? The ripple again. This time it was Persia and I saw a caliph surrounded by his many wives. On looking closer, I saw Malcolm Hinchliffe. Is this the reward of patience? It was China, this time. A bridge was being constructed over the Yangtze-Kiang. The head engineer was none other than Freda Hannuksela. The ripple didn’t stop this time but the water became clear. I saw the inside of an ocean liner—a chef. As I watched, he tasted the soup—or was it chili sauce?—he was cooking. When he turned around, I saw—Bill Durfee. The ripple stopped altogether then and a classroom in the Westerly High School was revealed. A class was in progress. The teacher wrote on the blackboard some strange characters. Of course, how silly to forget,—shorthand. She turned around to explain to the attentive class and I saw Issie Leon. She was following Miss Endicott’s footsteps. Another classroom ! English this time! And the teacher was— was—no—yes—it was Jimmy Prestini following Miss Hanson’s example. I recalled his fondness for study. The Assembly Hall next! A small girl with raised baton. Laura Rowntree in the place of Mr. Valentine—instructing the pupils in the high and low notes. That ripple began again and when it stopped, I saw the title page of a book. The name was the “History of the World’’ by Hazel Holman. Will wonders never cease? The next thing that appeared was the door of an office. It said, “Private” naturally. It swung inward as I watched and I saw a young lady seated with her feet on the desk. This was Gertrude Greenhalgh, and the office was that of the editor of the Westerly Sun. Before I had ceased wondering at this miracle the scene changed and— Up, up, and up! The picture was high above a city. On a contraption attached to a flagpole was seated a young man. It appeared to be a flagpole sitting contest and by the look on the young man’s face, he seemed to'have a good record. It was Ed Cotter. Well, there is more than one road to fame. Next I saw a strange thing—the label on a box. It said—