Brewer High School - Trident Yearbook (Brewer, ME)

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THE TRIDENT 23 cgongue- Twister As far back as I can remember, I have always stuttered. Not good, dlgniiled stammeringg but a sharp, staccato stutteringg like a riveting machine going full blast. When I was a child, my mother patiently drilled me, hour after hour, in a vain effort to cure me of this horrid curse, but all to no avail. In school, when I got up to recite, I sounded like a motorboat warming up. My classmates laughed at my comical eifcrts to speak. I became shy and self- conscious and withdrew from the companionship of others. It has always been like that. I hated people, be- cause they made fun of me. I tried to stay by myself as much as possible, because of my clattering tongue. When I left school, I went to live in a little cabin in the woods. It was beside an old road which was seldom used. I picked this place to live in because I thought I could live there quietly, away from people whom I did not wish to see. It was just as I wished. I lived there alone, un- disturbed. At last, I was contented. My accursed tongue could bother me no more. , One spring morning, in the sixth year of my seclusion, a road crew drove by my cabin, and the foreman stopped at my door. We're going to blast up the hill about half a mile up the road, he said. Wh-wh-wh- when? I managed to bark out. ge stared at me in surprise, for an instant, then sa . In about an hour. Don't worry, it won't disturb you in the least. However, there's something I wish you'd do for me, if you will. I waited, not trusting myself to speak again. Probably there's one chance in a thousand of any- one's coming through here, but if they do, would you please stop them and tell them to go back? If they happened to get there at just the right time, they'd be blown up. I nodded, and closed the door. Of course, no one would be through this road. I-Iadn't I lived there for six years without seeing a living soul? Naturally, those silly, gaping tourists would pick that beautiful, spring morning to explore the de- lightful old abandoned road. I rushed into the road, waving my arms frantically. They stopped, wonderment printed on their faces. Th-th-th-they're g-g-g-g-gonna b-b-b-b- blast! blast! why c0uldn't I say that simple word? B-b-b-bub-b-b- I stared at them frantically. They were beginning to laugh at me. I rushed into the camp to get a pencil and piece of paper. When I came out, they had driven off!! I waited for what seemed to me an eternity. Cold sweat poured' off my face. My accursed tongue! Per- haps it had been the means of kililng four people! Finally, I saw them driving back down the road. They stopped when they came to me. The driver leaned out. D-d-d-d-did-? I stammered. Yes, they stopped us in time, the man said, smil- ing sarcastically. He dropped a nickel into my out- stretched palm. Here y'are he said, buy yourself a box of cough drops. They're good for that hoarse throat. 'I'hen they drove off, their hateful laughter floating back to me on the morning breeze. K. Rowe. .Beauty of Wature I wonder how many people out of the millions ever truly live as nature intended? Try it for just a short time, and you will never regret your choice. Select some quiet uninhabited spot just as far from all modern life as you can flnd. Pitch your tent and then let nature rule. Mornings when the sun is just beginning to wink at our universe, you will hear the most wonderful music. The birds all try to do their very best, and they certainly put mere mortals to shame. There are the glories of sunrise: the beautiful colors never yet copied perfectly. It will make you wonder why God does care so much for man. By the time you have had breakfast, cooked over an open fire, you are ready to fish, swim, or walk wherever fancy may lead. If you choose to sit idle in a canoe and drift down the stream, or lake, you see more beauty than ever dreamedg little fish, of beautiful colors, darting swiftly here and there. The branches of the trees bending low over the water, as if studying their graceful forms, in a mirror. Once in awhile if you are very quiet, a beautiful deer will appear on the shore for a cooling drink. As you listen you hear sounds and see things, you little dreamed could be. If you are looking for a thrill, which you never will forget, take a trip like this one and learn appreciation, for all that is beautiful, and a new reverence for the maker of it all. Ella Moore '34. .7 .Doomsville gpisode About ten o'clock one dark, rainy night, a man, with his cap pulled low over his forehead, and collar turned up about his face, was seen pushing a wheelbarow along the muddy lane of Doomsville. In this wheelbarrow could be seen a dark box, the paint flaked off in spots, showing rusty iron beneath. The man now and then nervously adjusted the wheel- barrow so that the sliding box could slip back into place. He seemed to be having difficulty in pushing this through the mud: and frequently he stopped, drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the rain and perspiration from his face, meanwhile cautiously look- ing about him. Once or twice an imagined sound made him jump nervously and peer timorously in all directions. All was silent, except the sound of the rain drops pattering on his slicker, and the water squashlng in his boots, making him swear softly under his breath. The lapping of the waves against the shore of the small, dark lake announced that he was nearing the end of his journey. Finally reaching there, he pulled an old, black boat and two oars from a small grove of trees. Slowly and carefully he lifted the iron box from the wheelbarrow to the bottom of the boat. Then he rowed as silently as he could to the middle of the lake. Pulling his oars nolselessly into the boat, he stood up and peered carefully around him, as if afraid that he was being watched. At last, with a sudden spurt of courage, he lifted the box from its resting place and shuddered, as it quickly and silently sank from sight. His muscles relaxed and he sighed, Poor Iskabible, she was the best cat I ever drowned. I. Drew.

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22 THE TRIDENT UTEWAR7 .72 Waving .Day Up before daybreak, with the rain pouring from the heavens in torrents. How disgusting. Why? Today is the day on which we are to move and so much must be done. The moving men will be here before we start packing dishes. Yes, sure enough, here they are and absolutely nothing done. The baby of the family is still asleep and the rest are rushing to and fro pack- ing, stowing away, or carrying articles. The thought enters my mind, as to what will happen to the fur- niture ln such a rain, but that question is quickly dismissed by my efforts in trying to save a coat from the hands of those expert grabbers , as we might call moving men. There go the bed, bureau and several other pieces and one room. is empty in less than live minutes. Quick work! More things are gone or going and from the midst of the confusion comes the frightened cry of Mamma , from the child who has been awakened suddenly by the unusual noises. Now to dress him. Where can his clothes be? Yes, here they are: all but his stockings. Where are they? They are in the bureau drawer, but the bureau is gone and even clothes are taken almost oil' one's back. What next? The child dressed, as much as possible, the packing of dishes is resumed. Orders from mother seem unending as I hear her say, Bring the soup plates: that's it. Now, the dinner plates: they will fit best here. What is there that will tit into a corner? That will do, she says, as I bring forth a small nest of bowls. This trying to keep up with orders seems to last for hours but that is not really so, of course. Then the real moving. Now we are in the new house where the furniture is being unloaded and as I stand upon a box I feel, as a traffic cop must, when directing traffic. This ls what I say, Put that piano here. No, a little nearer the doorway. That will do. The phonograph? Yes. That,-well let me see: set it down by that end window for the present. That bed goes in the back room, that bureau in the front room. Here, don't put that chair out there: I want it in this room. That is the last piece. What a dreadful bother it is to move. Hungry? Of course. Well, food will taste good now if it ever dld. Where shall we sit? The food will digest just as well if not better for eating off a barrel and sitting on boxes. The meal over, work must be started again and this time we shall try to arrange the furniture exactly as we want lt, only in a few days to change it entirely, perhaps. By evening the fumiture has been placed and some unpacking completed. Tired and aching muscles long for a place to rest, but where are our sleeping gar- ments? No one remembers. A hunt is started and one drawer, then another, and still another are over- hauled until all the sleeping garments except mine have been found. Everything is once more gone over imtll someone suggest the phonograph and there resting peacefully are my pajamas. The day over, we try to enjoy our first night in our new home. Doris M. Don- '33. Cwhat gfolidays Really gre A holiday is not what the dictionary defines lt, a. day of gayety and joy. On the contrary, to most of my friends, it means that extra long study period eked out by our teachers after which in all probability you can expect a test. Each teacher adds to your burden of woe by repeating this same formula: And now, as you will have the holiday, I suggest having the examination directly afterwards, rather than going any further in your textbooks and having more material to cover. So, as you propel your weary feet through the portals of this honorable institution of learning, you are almost entirely hidden by your various prepara- tions for the holiday in form of books, pencils, paper, ink, erasers and everything else that coincides with your anticlpations for this longed-for day. After stag- gering slowly homeward, you are greeted with this pleasant exclamation form Mother: Have you any studying to do over the holiday dear? In your turn, you cast a baleful look in her general direction and reply sweetly, No, Mother darling, only three little tests. Then you trail up to your room, emitting long drawn-out sighs. After much con- templation, you decide that careful application and concentration is your only hope for an afternoon off. The next morning deep in the history of Louis XIV's reign, your train of thought is rudely inter- rupted by strange walls which seem to come from down stairs. What on earth is that! It sounds like some animal in dire distress. Suddenly light dawns! Of course, foolish of you not to think of lt before, Junior was starting his violin lessons today. Just after your scattered thoughts are again in order, little sister bursts in with a Where are those bobby-pins I lent you this morning? You promised to give them back. In a similar manner the real day passes and my firm belief-that the true definition of holiday is a long extended study period-is doubly strengthened. G. Baker '34.

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24 THE TRIDEN'f Zn 'Unexpected .Better It was late atfernoon on a beautiful day. The sun shone on the mountain side, making it very pleasant. Half way up this mountain was a cozy cottage behind which two children were playing. The older, a boy of nine, had a pug nose, freckles, dark hair and deep 'elue eyes. The other was a golden-haired, pink checked little girl of six. She said to the little boy: Peter, I think it's about time for Daddy to come home. Don't you? Yes, Gloria, I think so too, answered the boy. I wish he would hurry. He promised that he would make me a little boat tonight, to sail in the duck pond. Listen. Is that him I hear coming up the road now? Gloria ran around the house to a spot where she could view the narrow, crooked mountain road. Com- ing up this road was a boy about eighteen, black eyes and a large body. He wore course, homespun clothing, heavy boots, no hat, and he carried a canvas pack on his back. When he saw the little girl, he assumed a cheerful grin. At sight of him, Gloria skipped down the road laughing and clapping her hands. Kenney, Kenney, I. dldn't know you were coming home. Won't mother be surprised? Oh, I am so glad to see you. Did you bring anything for me? Why, is that all you care about having your brother home after all this long time? Here's something for you, though. He searched hastily in his pocket- book and handed'Gloria a bright, new quarter. Where are mother, father and Peter? he asked. Mother is in the house making me a dress. Daddy's gone down the mountain to get a new pair of shoes, and-here comes Peter now. Gloria, has daddy come? shouted Peter. At sight of Kenneth, he burst into a run. Why, Ken, what are you here for? I thought you weren't coming home until November. Never mind why I came. You don't care anyway: do you, so long as I'm here? No, I guess not. When the three children reached the cottage, their mother expressed surprise at seeing her older son home at that time. At eight o'clock, Kenneth, Peter, Gloria, and their mother were sitting in front of the fireplace in the large, cozy dining roomg living-room, and kitchen combined. The children's father had not returned. AU half past eight Kenneth and his mother sat there alone-the younger children having been sent to bed earlier. At half past nine Kenneth's mother, remarking to him that his father was probably staying with a friend in the village, suggested that they also go to bed. The next morning by ten o'clock, Kenneth, who had been busying himself about the cottage, noticed that several times his mother went to the door and looked out. Once she remarked, I wonder what is lglefsplng your father. He doesn't often stay away like He has probably found a chance to work today for someone, hastily remarked her son. That afternoon Kenneth sat for hours in the same place. He held a book, but anyone who regarded him intently could have told that he was not reading. Instead he seemed to be entirely occupied with his .own thoughts. When his mother asked him if he liked the book, he answeerd, I-I guess so. As evening came, the chlldren's mother again began to watch for her husband. She began to look worried. Once when she looked at her oldest son quickly, she remarked, Why, Ken, what is the matter? Your face is actually white. Tell mother what's the matter. Why did you come home so suddenly? You aren't in trouble are you? I-I don't know, answered the boy not knowing what else to say. After Gloria and Peter were asleep that evening, Kenneth handed his mother a letter. She looked at the envelope a moment, remarking, 'I'hat's your father's writing. Kenneth buried his face in his hands as his mother read slowly- Dear Son, I am in trouble, Kenneth, real trouble. Do you remember old Mr. Carver who lives down by the post office? He has taken a dislike to me-he bears me a bitter hatred. Poor old fellow, he is half crazy anyway. I have no proof against him such as courts would consider, and I am still hoping against hope that it may be only a foolish fancy, but I am certain-my son-certain that he will kill me at his earliest opportunity. Won't you come home so that if it happens-when it happens-you can be here to care for your mother and the children? Trustingly yours, Your Father. M. Higgins '34. With .711 Wpologies 'Go lgincoln Four long years ago our fathers brought forth into Brewer Hgh School a new class, conceived in antics and dedicated to the proposition that all students should pester the teachers. Now we are engaged in a great undertaking, testing Whether our class or any other class so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. We are met in a great high school for that purpose. We have come to dedicate a portion of it as a final resting place for the teachers who gave up their time that we students might get by. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a large sense we cannot behave, we cannot learn, we cannot ruin this school. The brave alumni living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or subtract. The city will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what we did here. It is for us the students rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which those who studied here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here working for the great as remaining before us: that for these honored alumni we have increased their shame to such extents that they hardly recognize usg that we have highly resolved that their shame shall not be borne in vaing that this class under Mr. Gordon shall have a new birth of learning and that the mis- chief of the students, by the students and for the students shall not perish from Brewer High. A. White '33.