Westerly High School - Westlyan Yearbook (Westerly, RI)

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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—

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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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t:2k skmor year book 23 “Non-Breakable, Clean-All Toothpick. Invented, discovered, and patented by Quent Tucker.” A funeral was in progress. And I saw some of the paid mourners. One girl seemed to be crying quite as heartily as she had laughed in the Senior Play—Minnie Felicetti. The referee had just raised the hand of one of the contestants in a prize fight. The figure on the floor was Nelson Thorp. Then Williard Cook come out of a two-wheeled caravan with a small box of trained fleas to be exhibited. Next a paperhanger. A good job if you can control the paste. This paperhanger apparently could. Albert Green always had deft fingers. Who was that man standing beneath the balcony of a fair maiden? He was strumming a guitar—and was Henry Turissi. Another eloquent speaker appeared. But the sign above her showed she was a “Red.” I never should have thought Madge Ledwidge would have become a Communist. A road was being repaired and I noticed one worker who seemed to be digging much more industriously than others—it was Wenonah Smith. Our class had produced a respectable number of workers, it appeared. Howard—that esteemed institution of protection. The matron (Mary Farago, if you please) was supervising the disposal of a raving maniac. The door of a padded cell gaped wide. At last, however, Dougie Barber was safe. Tra, la, la. An opera singer! Wonderful! The applause was prolonged. The singer was Frances Parker. A radio announcer next! By the movement of his mouth, he seemed at no loss for words. Fred DePietro, in his chosen profession ! Who was that pianist? A second Vincent Lopez it seemed—no less than Tommy Wright. Early morning! Sun just peeping over the hills—and the milkman whistling at his work—pardon, her work. This is another place where women are displacing men, evidently. Eleanor Ruisi was the vendor. The Flo Ziegfeld Follies! A rehearsal was evidently in progress. The bowl showed me one girl—Heavens!—Gertrude Solomon. Another institution of protection! This time it was a home for aged men—and some weren’t so aged either. The matron in charge was Ruth Saunders. I recalled her aversion for men in our high school days. A spotlight played over a stage! Into its brilliance, a figure glided and proceeded to execute a snake dance. The dancer was Ella Bohning. The ripple again! This time it was the melting pot of a steel factory. Elisha Peckham stood with long iron bar in hand, shirt