|N||E beautiful day in June, I had gone out into the garden and had seated myself on a bench near a bush of large white roses. The air was filled with their sweet fragrance and, as I plucked one, my thoughts were taken back over some twenty year to the time when a senior in the dear old A. H. S. The white rose had been our class flower, and the sight of it reminded me of my old classmates. As I wondered what their fates had been I noticed that some of the rose petals had fallen into my lap. I picked one up, and by examining it closely, I learned that there were on it what seemed to be strange hieroglyphics. Unable to decipher it myself, I took the flower, whose leaves seemed to be filled with tidings, to a weird, learned, old doctor, who makes it his business to solve unknown problems and translate unknown tongues. You will remember him as Marion Lamb of the class of 1912. He found that each petal held a history, and interpreted them thus in the language of the rose:
Howard Remley, after leaving H. S., studied law, and is now one of the judges of the Supreme courtójust as we always predicted he would be.
As the next petal fell, we heard a peculiar buzzing sound and just as we expected, it was the history of Matie Powers who is still singing vaudeville sketches to an appreciative audience of one.
On the next petal we read that Clyde Barker had completed his education in a theological school and is now pastor of the Methodist Episcopal church at Anamosa.
Such a glistening petal now dropped that I grasped it eagerly, and learned that Ruby Johnson, after leaving A. H. S., had taught school for a time, but soon tiring of that trying life,