Biddeford High School - Olympian Yearbook (Biddeford, ME)

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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

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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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I8 THE OLYMPIAN card. Martin watched her go clown the platform, his eyes glistening. ln the cab of No. 99 as the train pulled away from the station, he re- membered the card and looked at it. WINIFRED MORAN. 1001 Western Avenue New York City His lucky day! Martin sang all the way to Madison. Jim Moran was President of the Road and this was his daughter! Kitty Murphy saw little of Martin from that day on. When they did meet, he scarcely noticed her. You mustn't be minding his dull moods, Mrs. Hannigan told her. He's thinking, dreaming of carriages --and things. Forget him. Forget Martin? As if she could! Years passed. Martin worked up from one position to another on the railroad. Eventually he left The Patch and Centerville. and turned his face eastward-toward New York, the city of his dreams-and the girl with the voice that thrilled him. ln the east he hitched his wagon to a star, and drove were rewarded. On appointed District Railroad, Winifred his wife. His mother grew old in the little cottage at the end of Gold Street, but before she died, she often talked of her boy, who dreamed of carriages and diamonds, and at last saw his dreams come true. I always knew he'd do well, she would Asay. Could read it in his eyes when 'he was a little one. He always said he'd go where the streets are pav- ed with gold! And he did, too! He was a deep one, they will tel! you in Centerville, not at all like the rest of us-quiet, dreamy-like, his head always in the clouds-queer, but well able to take care of himself, a fine lad liked by everyone. Hardly ever comes back here any more, though. hard. His efforts the day he was Manager of the Moran became Wouldn't know what he looks like now, it's been so long since we saw him. Kitty Murphy still lives in The Patch, a spinster, alone in her old home. She has grown a bit queer in late years, they say. Every day at noon when the train from Chicago roars by her house, she stands at the front gate to watch it pass. Sometimes on bright, sunny days, she waves at the Hrernan. The fireman, a nice. young lad, always waves back. The people of The Patch told him Kitty's story long ago. He under- stands- J. Walsh, '40, OUR WASHINGTON TRIP. April I5, I938, to April 22, 1938, are seven days that sixty-five seniors will never forget. Four long years of waiting! Oh the excitement that filled sixty-five hearts the days previous to the trip! What fun we had spending New York Skyline money, buying new clothes, and pack- ing our bags! We started off at exact- ly l I :44 that Friday, a crowd throng- ing the station to bid us a cheerful good-by. l know that the ride to Bos- ton seemed short to most of us, since time passes so quickly when we are having some jolly good fun. We were hurried to the wharf in taxis in the pouring rain so as to be on the boat by 4:30, and then we had to wait an