Biddeford High School - Olympian Yearbook (Biddeford, ME)

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I6 THE OLYMPIAN going to be easy! The kitchen was topsy-turvy but then all great creators and artists worked in cluttered areas. The cat and clog were running helter- skelter to escape my feet which were now striding about with increasing ra- pidity. Why do eggs always break when you drop them? How will I ever get this place tidied up before mother returns? Such thoughts as these were running through my gray-matter . Now let me see, the recipe reads: Cream, milk, sugar, and butterg well, there is something definitely wrong with this recipe. Imagine telling some- one to cream butter, milk, sugar with- out even stating the amount of cream to be used. This batter looks like but- terscotch candy-but who am I to ques- tion a reliable cook-book? There, that went into the cake-tin nicely. I wonder what those funny-looking bubbles are: oh, I know, carbon dioxide or some- thing. My, isn't it wonderful what an education will do for you! Ah, it was finally ready for the oveng m-m-m m-m-m it did look good. While the cake was in the process of making history or cement, I attempted to straighten the kitchen. The results were disastrousg breaking eggs, spilling Hour, stepping on the dog's paw all added to my misery. Well, it seemed that about this time mother usually tested the cake. Gingerly, I gathered up the cake-tester and, eager with antic- ipation, I raced to the oven. Woe, misery-what have I ever done to de- serve this-there is no cake, nothing but a black round disc as hard as mor- tar. Well, perhaps I HAD left it too long in the ovenl At any rate, during that speechless moment the novice of the kitchen became a graduate of the school of disappointments. Anne O'Sullivan, ' 38. STREETS OF GOLD Rock River winds its way through the valleys and lowlands of southern Wisconsin, and where it jags sharply southward on its way to Illinois is the town of Centerville. Years ago Center- ville was a railroad center, and a meet- ing-place for farmers on market days. In those times the railroad yards were on the western edge of the town. Be- yond the yards was a jumble of shacks and houses on a crazy little hill. Th's district was known as The Patch. One had to be Irish to live in The Patch. If a person didn't have a good Irish brogue, it was dangerous to so much as walk up the road that was Gold Street. They were a cliquish, tempestuous lot, those people of The Patch. New to America, they clung together like a hive of bees, and could be just as venomous if aroused. People on the other side of the town called them shanty Irish. The men worked on the railroad, as a rule. They were on section crews at first, then later, as America drew them to her, they filtered into other branches of railroad work and became foremen, brakemen, firemen, and engineers. Some climbed even higher. Martin I-Iannigan, a broth of a lad, with skin as soft as a girl's and muscles like iron, lived with his mother in a lit- tle cottage at the end of Gold Street. I'Ie was a fireman on the Number 99 that ran between Chicago and Center- ville, and besides that, something of a wrestler. Everyone in The Patch re- spected Martin, for not only was he able to take care of himself in a tus- seling match with men, but could read and write with the best of them. Like his mother, he was gentle in his waysi, especially with women folk. It was said of him that he never went looking for trouble: neither did he walk away from any. The Patch people admired him for these qualities. So did others. When Martin, still in his 'teens, got a

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THE OLYMPIAN I5 case, our savant, when actually engaged in a thus propounded task, either fails to be blessed by his cerebral inspira- tions, or perhaps, to his misfortune, he enters the tentacles of another back seater and is thereby lost. Still, as you may argue, by being op- pressed by his own diabolical machin- ery, the driver may realize the conse- quences of his own failings. Alas! Not sog being inspired by the worthy ex- ample of his former assistant, his only thought is for the continuation of his self-termed welfare work. Fortunately, as yet there are few of this category who can boast of an edu- cation. For if their efforts were com- bined under the systematic direction of an informed person, then, indeed, would life be unbearable. But still, it may be lack of education that is respon- sible for this conditioin. Then, again, will difficulties be encountered, for the savant is, in his opinion, very well in- formed, which fact will offer insur- mountable difficulties in educating him. We can see, therefore, that our only recourse is to wait hopefuly until some benefactor shall opportunely come to the aid of suffering mankind. W. Osher, ' 38. A LITTLE LEARNING IS A DANGEROUS THING CPOPEJ The school of which I am a member is composed of four different classes of pupils, different in rank, learning, thoughts and ideas. Of course there are no prejudices between the pupils of these four classes, but each has certain points that stand out above all others both in thought and action. The other day as I sat in the study hall and gazed upon the faces of the pupils, my eyes happened to rest upon a boy who was very much interested in something that he was writing or trying to figure out. This boy, I could tell at a glance was in the freshman class. He had just left the grammar school and was beginning the long climb up the ladder of success. I-Ie was on the first step. If he stopped studying right there, he would fall off this ladder. It was up to him whether he would continue climbing or fall back. My eyes then rested upon another figure in the center of the room. This person was restless. I-Ie-would study for a while and then try to annoy his neighbors or engage in some prank. I-Ie had reached the second step of the ladder. But he still has something to worry about. It is a rather difficult task to jump from the second step to the third. He was just a sophomore! Ten minutes to one! Two or three boys had already closed their books, placed them in a pile and were half seats. Yes, these way out of their boys were in the junior class. They were out of danger. They had reached the third step and were safe. At least that is what they thought. Just one more year and our goal is reached was the thought in their minds. Then, a senior! We're at the top. We've succeededl But have we? I wonder. ln a few months the top of the ladder will be seen. But there is still another ladder to climb. One that is even harder than the first. This first one was just a stepping stone that led us to this next one. Will this one here be climbed successfully? One does not know. We see but a part and not a whole. God keeps man in ignorance of what his future is to be. S. Sparkewich, '38, A NOVICE IN THE KITCHEN A rare feeling tore at my brain one sunny day. I felt the urge to do some- thing great. I rushed to the kitchen determined to bake a cake unlike any heretofore eaten by man. Hurriedly I began to assemble the constituents: salt, eggs, sugar, flour. My, this was

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THE OLYMPIAN I7 job on the railroad as fireman, lVIolly's, his mother's, heart sang. It meant her boy was going to do well in this new land where the streets were paved with gold. From fireman it would be just a few steps to better things. She thought of other lrish boys she had known, who had risen to fine positions, even managerships, on the far-Hung railroads. Martin would be like them. She knew he would. In some ways Martin was accounted a queer one. At times there would be a strange blue light in his eyes, and he would sit for hours without so much as saying boo to anyone. When this mood had passed, he would suddenly grow loquacious, and his talk would be strange, far-away. At such times his friends in The Patch would shake their heads in bewilderment, and won- der what had come over him. The fairies are in his blood again, they would whisper among themselves. His father had it, too. My boy, Martin, will ride in a fine carriage some day, Molly would say softly, her eyes filling with pride. And he will be wearing diamonds on his fin- gers, too, he will. You wait and see. Kitty Murphy loved to hear the old 99 whistle, miles south of her home alongside the tracks. The first faint sound of it always brought her out of the kitchen. When the sound of the whistle drew nearer, and the rails began to whine softlyg when a ribbon of smoke climbed to the sky, she would run back to the house to give her chestnut hair a last touching up. At the exact mo- ment when the 99 rumbled past on its way to the station, she would be out again to smile and wave at the husky fireman in the cab. When Martin Han- nigan waved back, it was an important moment in her day. Kitty had loved Martin since child- hood. As the years went by she could see none of the other young Irish blades who came calling at her door. A slender girl with roses in her cheeks and a song in her eyes, she had a vivaciousness that attracted many a likely lad, but Martin was not attracted so much as she would have liked. He did call oc- casionally, but courting was not the word for his visits. Still Kitty kept alive her dream of some day marrying Martin. When Martin was assigned to the through run from Chicago to Madison with only a ten-minute stop at Center- ville, Kitty begged Mother Hannigan to let her carry his dinner to him at the station. One night half-way down the road, Kitty caught up to him and walkefd home with him. All he talked of was the glittering carriage he would some day ride in. When Kitty knelt to say her prayers that night, there were tears in her eyes as she asked, Oh, dear Lord, will he ever really see me? There was a day when an escaped lunatic ran amuck on the station plat- form, swung an axe he had torn away from someone, headed toward people crowding out of the coaches on Mar- tin's train. There were sudden screams. Women fainted. Men turned and ran for their lives. Martin Hannigan did not run. He followed the lunatic, and just as the crazed man swung his axe above a girl who had fallen in fright, he caught up with him and leaped. There was a shortfrenzied struggle but the police came, manacled the man and took him away. When the girl recovered possession of herself, she thanked Martin and asked his name. She was young, slen- der, beautiful in a way entirely new to Martin. Her soft voice set his blood tingling and he imagined he was stand- ing on a cloud. She said goodbye, then, remember- ing that she had not told him who she was, she hurried back to hand him a