Bar Harbor High School - Islander Yearbook (Bar Harbor, ME)

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BUBBLE GUM CHEWING I strongly believe that the art of chewing bubble gum is one that is shamefully neglected. Many people recognize and admire paintings, works of sculpture, and concertos by the great composersg but rarely are the bubble gum experts appreciated and applauded. Even so, there is practicallyno difference between these fields. It requires as much skill to maneuver the huge pink mass of bubble gum in your mouth as it does to achieve success in any of the more respected arts. Even more skill is called for if the person who is chewing wishes to speak and make himself under- stood. A mumbled, jumbled sentence is sufficient testimony of a sloppy and unskilled chewer. The supreme test of the art of bubble gum chew- ing is blowing bubbles. The real perfectionist can produce a flawless bubble - - not egg-shaped or an out of proportion one, but a perfectly rounded bubble. The expert that can do this has trained him- self extensively in watching his fellows and their chewing. He is able to forestall any possibility of his bubble being smashed in his face. I think people who commit such a heinous crime ought to be pun- ished as soundly as someone who destroyed a beautiful painting would be. There is nothing more aggravating than to have a sticky mass of bubble gum covering your face that was once a beautiful, flawless bubble. If reading this little essay has brought you to thinking you might want to make a career in this field, I highly recommend that you make an at- tempt. I wam you that you will not receive much recognition, but the enjoyment and relaxation will be reward enough. If you are a beginner and want to learn the fundamentals of bubble gum chewing, I also recommend a book which I have just written entitled How To Chew Bubble Cum Successfully. It contains much helpful information such as lip positions for making perfect bubbles, how to speak and chew at the same time, etc. Good luck! -Joy Roberts i Q f H MOONLIGHT MARVELS Sliding softly o'er the waters Tink'ling, dancing, dazziling light Mellow, yellow, golden streamers Quiet wavelets lighting night. Like a path for singing angels Rimmed by murky, endless sea Moonlight lays its rich, gold carpet Splendrous sight for all to see. Glowing, painting, noiseless, tainting Bright moon sails on joyous high Spreading spark'ling smiles on moon-glade Drawing from the waves a sigh. Paul Jordan, Senior MORNING In brooding hush, a low-flung cloud protects the shifting waves, And soft and gray, a dripping veil explores the rocks and caves. Above and wheeling in and out a gull sails off to seag To cut the mist to trailing rags and leave them hanging free. So slashed the gliding silver knife, that brooding thickness pales, And snatching up her ragged skirt, that limply hangs and trails, She softly fades as morning comes and leaves the ocean free. The mist has gone, the ghost of night, and left a sparkling sea. Vivian Scott, Sophomore f il l Q WO' HOPPON' From time to time we stop and think What happened to the boys this year. We've played and re-played all the games We fought so hard and came so near. It's very hard to understand Why we had such a time. We sometimes get so far ahead. But then we'd lose by nine. At Bangor we played very well. We thought we had the gameg An ankle then was sprained by Nate - - But he was not to blame. Then darn it all, poor Don fouled out- - We then began to fold. A twelve point lead was whittled down. We weren't the boys of old. We gazed into the crystal ball, We wondered what to do. We won just four hoop games this year, The boys were sad and blue. This was the year to be so great - - We had a veteran teamg But breaks and injuries got us down And smashed our little dream. But anyway we did our best - - You couldn't ask for more. We weren't the champs of yesteryear We hope the fans aren't sore. -LeRoy Dyer

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WILL MAN NEVER LEARN As Toynbee has pointed out, History is a record of manis slow climb upward from savageryf' His- tory may be a record of dates, events, and trends of the time, but it is also a story of many vivid person- alities. Down through the ages, their deeds have been told and retold in songs and stories and have accumulated a vast amount of legendary over lay. For example: On the night of February 1, 1855 in Devonshire, some strange creature, whose identity was never discovered or presence explained, was abroad in the fields. In the deep snow it left a trail of footprints like of which no one had ever seen before. For weeks, all England was puzzled by the weird footprints. Superstitious souls were sure Satan himself had crossed the countryside that night. The truth was never discovered. To this day the mystery of the 'Devil's Footprints' remains unsolved. Our nation is a mere youth in age compared to other nations that have risen to power only to de- cline. Examples are Egypt, Persia, Babylonia, Greece, and Rome among others. These all rose and fell leaving their imprints on the record of time. Is the United States to follow in the path of these nations? I believe that we will if we don't do some- thing to strengthen our national character. It would seem that if the technological advance of man continues without an equal development in social knowledge he will destroy himself. A World War III might bring about such a catastrophe either bv atomic warfare and biological warfare or by jet- propelled missiles. The possibilities are too horrible to think of. Is wise, strong and fair-minded leadership pos- sible? Without such leadership we may conclude that man is doomed! -Grace Libby I- I' H I' WHY? Why can't we use atomic power To keep our houses warm, To develop electricity, Instead of for a bomb? Why can't we use the steel we make For shells, and guns, and tanks, To build homes or universities, Or hospitals or banks? Why can't we use the money We spend for self defense To teach earth's civilized people A little bit of common sense? Why can't we devote our efforts To some project of real worth? Why canlt we work together, All people here on earth? Did you ever stop to ask yourself Why, since history began, We've spent so much time and life and energy Just destroying fellow man? -Fred ,Iellison SPRING The days grow long, the sun breaks through, The snow is melting fast, Blue skies above, the robin's song -- Brave spring is here at last. The lovely sight of waving grass Blends smartly with the sea - 'Tis picturesque, our native land Unlocked without a key. A last farewell to winter's sting - 'Tis tamed by seasonls thaw. A tranquil rain and beaming sun Brings spring by nature's law. LeRoy Dyer, Senior I' 'I H 'I ART Although there are many other kinds of art, I always think of the modern, zany, psychological type when the subject is brought up. These artists who create their weird, primitive, inter-mingling streaks of wild color must live a rather satisfying life in some respects. ,lust think of the fun they have soothing their inner, childish, violent emotions by attacking a blank innocent piece of canvas and changing it into a strange distorted group of figures and objects, that can have as many meanings and angles as a fluttery, high strung woman. If one article I read is any indication of modem painting methods there will be more and more artists developing. It seems tha-t the only ingredients needed are a few tubes of paint, several sticks, a little dust and gravel, a couple of spiders, fany stray form of insect life that may wander across the canvas,J a flair for carelessness, a wild, flighty, lurid imagination, and a very, very understanding family. For these few inconsequentials, you may invent something worth thousands of the little, green pieces of paper with George Washington's portrait inscrib- ed on them. It sounds easy, doesn't it? You know, I think that my garage would make an excellent studio. -Paul Jordan 'lf' I' l 'lt DREAMS There are many kinds of dreams. We all have them every day. With us trav'ling over time To hold us spellbound in their sway. We had them in our childhood days Perhaps in thoughts of Santa Claus. And sometimes now in troubled times, We think about the day that was. We are in a warlike world Where there is no peace of mind. But sometimes in our restful dreams. We find the peace the world can't find. - loan Williams, Junior

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Across the purple hills at dusk C Th A AT EVENING SPRING FEVER IN JANUARY When the sun is sinking, olors flame and gold appear-- Arm and arm are linking. And all the colors die, en slowly as the twilight fades rom up the woodland path I hear A whip-poor-will's lone cry. Of appletrees in bloom, nd through my window, comes the scent And silver gleams from twinkling stars Light up the gathering gloom. --Warren Stillwell I Ag' ' 1 x X f . N t ' 1 1 WWA W X I W ' if lfll ff' X 1 H1 14 Some days, homework gets me down awfully. Especially days like this, when it's all spring-like, and the yearly attack of spring fever has come un- timely with the January thaw. It doesnit help if the teacher has thought up a particularly devilish as- signment either. Write a humorous essay! Ho, ho. I feel so humorous. ltis about three o'clock now. Plenty of time, you say, a whole afternoon ahead of me. It may be plenty of time for other people, but not for yours truly. It takes at least three hours to work myself up to doing real endeavor. My abused conscience gives a half-hearted kick, and I wander into the living-room for some paper. What do you know! My eye lights on the Sunday paper. I pounce on it with glee. Somewhat later I get up and look around. What was it I came in for? Unfortunately, my memory is better than usual. Quit kidding yourselff' it sneers, uyou know. I repress the urge to have what there is of it surgically removed, and go get the paper. Done in slow motion, this takes lime. When it is out, I remember suddenly that I haven't done my French sentences. They are easy, and why not do them first? No sooner said than - - well, started, anyway. After that I remember a very good mystery I haven't read. Suppressing conscience and memory with both hands, I start it. Time passes, as it usually does. After supper I wash my hair and dry it, reading several comic books that I don't par- ticularly care for. At the eleventh hour, 1 really the ninthj I spot the pen and paper lying accusingly on the desk. Now I remember! That was what I was supposed to do. And thatis why it's ten o'clock now. -Vivian Scott 1