Wilson Central School - Crest Yearbook (Wilson, NY)

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Then I found myself repeating the following lines: Father Time brings many changes,, But he leaves for us to tell In whatever path we live and toil, Whether or not they be well. R. L. A. ’17. NOT DEAD, JUST STEEPING. One little Junior one morning awoke, And thot she would play a nice little joke. She came to school just full of pep, And told the rest w.hat she dreamed as she slept. T’was a great big banner, all silver and green, Which on the east board could always be seen. They looked, and behold her dream was true, Just realizing that they had been dreaming, too. So one little Junior, the banner erased. And immediately, there, a junior banner was placed. This banner was turkey red and white, With a cute little ’18 right in sight. But we Seniors soon banished that, all right, Although the Juniors guarded it late at night. All the little Juniors went running home fast To tell their mammas of their bright little task. This trifle didn’t worry us Seniors a bit. But the poor little Juniors nearly had a fit. It’s all passed and gone and our trials are done. Next year will be the time for the Juniors’ fun. SUNSHINE AND DAISIES. It was such a happy, sunshiny day, and the heavy gate was ajar a big crack! Was it any wonder that Maggie could not resist? With a gleeful, watchful eye on the house, she tugged at the gate until she could insert her small self within the opening and squeeze through. Then, just as fast as the little feet could carry her, down the road she sped, amidst rising flurries of hot, yellow dust. Pant-ing, but gayly, when out of sight of the house, she slowed down to a light-hearted saunter, happily observant of all the breathing world of sights and sounds about her. Now she stopped to sniff

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said she was going to stay at home for a few weeks and then she was going to New York to begin her winter engagement. When our train stopped at Lewiston Heights, whom should I see but Lelah Martin, putting a tire on a “Ford”. Eloise told me she had corresponded with Lelah and now Lelah was a physical training instructor and she had been teaching for nearly ten years. When I got off the train at Wilson, there stood an aeroplane, and beside it stood a young man about six feet tall. He heard me ask the ticket agent where the ’bus was. He told me that the auto 'bus was worn out; but I could ride down with him in his aeroplane. Just then I heard some one say “Hello, Beach!” then I saw that the young man was our demure little Earl of high school days. He said that he was a doctor, in Cleveland, and had come back to spend Sunday with some of his college chums. As I did not fancy riding in aeroplanes and as my traveling bag was light, I much preferred walking. I felt well repaid when I reached Mrs. Blake’s home, my heart was overflowing with joy at sight of so many familiar objects. The dear old school house, which I had not seen for fifteen years, and the home of our former respected and beloved Principal, Mr. Mcllroy, whom I had heard had retired on a pension and was living in a beautiful home in the city. Mrs. Blake greeted me at the door, and we had such an enjoyable time, talking of old school days. Roy McMillan had just stopped on his way from the County Fair to show Mrs. Blake his load of blue ribboned stock which he was taking home. At the mention of Roy’s name, my mind went back to my year in training class. I inquired if the school still maintained one, and Mrs. Blake told me that they had received fifteen applications from pupils who wished to attend, and the Board of Education had consented, with Miss Grace Lampe to teach the class. It was hard for me to imagine our Grace Lampe of old teaching training class, but as I look back, I remember how great was the love she always manifested for that particular work. I certainly enjoyed my visit, and as I rose to go I expressed my determination to visit my old friend Angeline McCormack, but Mrs. Blake assured me that was impossible, as Miss McCormack was in England studying at Cambridge for the summer, and in September she would take up her duties as teacher of the classics in Wellesley College. I was very sorry that I could not see her, but was very glad to hear she was so successful in her career.

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delicately at some nodding buttercups, then she merrily raced an old white horse, kicking up his heels at pasture. She climbed the railing of a bridge across a little stream to poke at the minnows with a thin branch, and almost fell in headfirst. She was enjoying herself hugely. On the steep side of a hill she came upon a great field of daisies, nodding and bending in the soft breeze. With a gay little crow she dived under the wire fence to fill her hands full of the big white blossoms. With her fists full to overflowing with the treasures, their long stems trailing and weighing down their sisters, she wandered happily among the flowers, almost hidden amidst their luxuriance. Thus concealed, it was no wonder that the little old lady in black, so wearily walking along the road, started at the sweet-toned salutation: “Good afternoon! You pretty well today?” It was instant before she spied the touseled head among the daisies. Ah, good afternoon, dear. Have you been picking the pretty flowers?” Yes’m. I’ll give you some.” She stretched her chubby little fists out through the wires, with eager generosity. “Thank you, little girl.” The sad face softened into unaccustomed lines. “They are lovely. It’s very generous of you to give me your pretty posies.” “You'm welcome. Wait jes’ a minute ’n I’ll go with you.” She clambered through the fence, with the awkward aid, after an instant’s hesitation, of the old lady. “Do you live down this way?” “M— no’m. Over ’n there,” with a vague gesture of the fat little hand. Then, hastily, “Is that a ’rithmatic you’ve got? I know all about ’rithmetic,” proudly. My brother Ted, he studies it, ’n my mother says I can, too, some day, when I’m big enough.” Oh, no, dearie, this isn’t an arithmetic. This is a very famous book, ‘The Lives of Our Presidents’. I go 'round t® all the houses and sell it to the people. Then the men who print it give me part of the money that I get for every book.” “They must be nice men. Don’t you have to do nothing but that?” Well, that’s pretty hard, sometimes. You see, they don’t always want to buy it, and then I don’t get any money.” She smiled bravely down at the dimly comprehending, sympathizing eyes of the child. “And some days it’s pretty hot, and you get tired, you know.” “Yes’m, I know. ’N then you mos’ cry and your mother pulls down the shades, and makes it all nice and cool, ’n sings you to sleep—. Does your mother have curls? My mother has. But none