The Gavelyte, April 1911

GBIJ.-'d{VlLLB CULLBGt. Class Poem. BY J. 0. S. The Senior Class of Nineteen Eleven Tiil January first was numbered seven When Ila Ramsey, one of our "kin, Decided to wait for her sheep skin. So that left six, and these relation, A noble gift for 0ur great nation, And now thus far we seem to be Still working hard for our degree. This June you'll see us, by expectation And also hear a grand oration By Rob't Ustick, the head of our class, Providing he shall decide to pass. Florence Williamson, a country lass, Who is not the BABY of our class Wi I occupy a rocking chair. You'll all know Florence, by her hair. J os-ephine Orr, who wields the pen, Also the hammer, now and then Will be there too, and like as not Cc ncealed behind a s,mall flower pot. Bertha Stormont, a writer of note, Who is "Class Scribe" by popular vote, Will sit directly in front of the man To whom, last year, she gave the can. Lydia Turnbull, divinely fair, it.bout her William, will be there. he is the youngest in our fold. Her futur 's planned, so I've been told. Th, person who must take tht' blame I• ol' this ryhme so simple, this poem so tam • Will aliio be there, if th rest will permit, And lietw •en TWO girls, lw'll likely sit. 9G