Biddeford High School - Olympian Yearbook (Biddeford, ME)

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Y. J.. 121

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26 THE OLYMPIAN shiny red bicycle. I became more and more enthusiastic, at the same time entertaining the family with possi- bilities of such a grand possession. Evidently my parents did not share my over-enthusiasm as they calmly informed me it was bed-time. I may have mentioned that I was nine years old, but did l tell you that l was also art of coaxing. wearing down very proficient in the Little by little l was Dad's resistance until he finally yield- ed to take a look at the bicycle. I flew to bed with the feeling that the battle was half won. The next day I introduced Dad to the superb red bicycle in the window. Wasn't it ducky and smooth-looking, and did you see the red and green tail- lights, and the silver spokes and, Oh yes, did you notice the big balloon tires and the carrier basket and all the cute gadgets! Why, Dad's eyes were actually sparkling too! Oh I simply tread on air that day: after all, Dad had practically said yes. But alas! Oh yes, there is always an ALAS! This world is full of them. Sad and disappointing they are. The very next day, l remember as yet, my visions, dreams, anticipations, every- thing vanished into thin air! Every- thing just simply vanished, leaving a void and empty space where once had lived a beautiful dream. The final de- cision had passed. Oh no, not in favor but decidedly against. As the circumstances were, I felt very sad indeed. I grieved not only the loss of an almost possessed dream, but I felt doubly sorry for Bud. Poor, poor Bud, lying so still and white on the high hospital bed, his right leg suspended high above him in terrible looking casts. ln his eyes was the agonized thought of a brand new bi- cycle now lying in mangled and pitiful state at home. l-lis little hands clench- ed the bed-clothes as he managed a brave yet quivering smile. Suddenly I felt very much ashamed. If Bud, who had seen his new bicycle wrecked be- fore his eyes, if Bud could lie there, his leg torturing him and yet smile, could l not at least try to imitate that courage? l tried, yes, I tried very hard to swallow my chagrin and disappoint- mentg and perhaps I succeeded a little? It was a very, very sad lesson of self denial but such a needed one. Violet White, ' 3 8. RUBBISH CANS. There is nothing like being awaken- ed early in the morning by the hollow clank of empty rubbish cans banging on the pavement. Or better still, by the strains of La Dona E. Mobile being launched into the quiet stillness by the man in the rubbish truck. There are two strange sound phe- nomena which are always associated with each other at an early hour in the morning. They are, as was formerly mentioned, the so-called song of the rubbish man and the booming accom- paniment of the rubbish cans. These strange sounds, and they are strange, could not exist without each other. While the man in the truck relieves himself of a few bars of operatic can bounding origination, the empty on the sidewalk below gives out with a few riffs or licks l have used musical scribing these noises because they are music, although it is a very distinctive type of music. It must be heard during the early hours to be appreciated. We are first awakened by the loud bang of the cymbalistic crash of the neighbor's waste cans. Then stealing sweetly through our window comes the martial strains of The Toreador's Song. Slowly the music increases in volume as it comes closerg now it is directly under our window. The rub- bish man hits a new strain and swings out on a Benny Goodman arrange- ment of l..och Lomond. Then there is a break which is filled with the Gene Kruper tom-tom-like accompaniment. We lie in bed, very still, afraid to move for fear of finding that it is only a dream: but it is not a dream, it is terms in de-

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