Bristol High School - Green and White Yearbook (Bristol, RI)

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THE GREEN AND WHITE 19 A SHOPKEEPER OF NAPLES “Tell me a story, Auntie,” Caroline begged. “Please, Auntie,” all the children echoed. Their Aunt, that ever-obliging woman, laid down her interesting book, and said resignedly, “Which one is it to be tonight?” “Oh, any one you want to talk about.” “Well—the way you children ask for stories reminds me of a little adventure I had in Naples.” “Tell us about it,” little Caroline ordered. “One day when I was wandering about Naples in an aimless fashion, I came to an unusual looking street—unusual even for that city. As I had a great deal of time I decided to explore the alley, so I turned and walked slowly down it. I didn’t mind the filth of the place, because it was very picturesque with its queer little shops and equally queer little shopkeepers. I thought I was getting a glimpse of the real Naples. I stopped at one of the stores to buy a souvenir and as I opened my purse I dropped a coin. Before I was able to pick it up some one snatched it and immediately disappeared through one of the numerous doorways. I turned to continued my walk, but I found that a crowd had gathered behind me. The shopkeeper informed me that as I had give alms to one begger the others wanted some, too. “I didn’t give him the money, he took it,” I exclaimed indignantly. The man shrugged and answered, “It's all the same.” The mob was moving nearer to me. I was frightened, so I called, “Can’t I do anything to escape them?” “Perhaps, if Madam buys another necklace, a ring or a pin, I may be able to persuade them to go away.” Angray as I was. I paid willingly. The man called to the crowd, and I hurried through an opening they made for me. That man certainly had an original method for selling his goods,” the Aunt concluded. CLAUDIA DeWOLF. ’31. SOLILOQUY To live 'midst dreary realities of Life— Sorrow, heartache, bitterness, strife, This is a duty we all must face, This business called Life, of stealthy pace. Life—a mystery; the greater mystery, Death; Who can solve them save beyond death? 'We live to die—we die to live,’ And the reason—who can tell ? Why Must time fly and take with it all our fond dreams ? Life is real. Life is earnest, and the goal is not what it seems! And after death—ah, what then? What will He decree for the destiny of men? Content and happiness momentarily lent. Or peace for eternity, heaven sent? As we live, so too, shall we die. To live hereafter in our home on high. So life and death revolve around each other. To solve one is to solve the other— It’s the awful mystery of Life and Death. KATHERINE F. KELLEY, ’29. HOW TO WRITE A THEME FOR ENGLISH You have to do it, there is no denying or getting around that fact, and you have to do it before tomorrow morning. You sit around with your head in your hands letting your thoughts wander over several subjects appropriate for anything but the sort of theme that is required. Soon your brain steals off into other channels and you wonder if Colt will win tonight; you hope that Mr. Dowd won't call on you to translate that hard section in Cicero. By the way, don’t you find the irregular verbs in French confusing? Then you remember that you have a dime bet on the Warren game, and you immediately start to figure your chances of winning. Suddenly the clock strikes nine. Already you’ve wasted an hour. That theme has simply got to be written! What is a good subject? The Mt. Hope Bridge, “Basket Ball, and How It Should Be Played,” “The Fastest Typist at Colt and Four Reasons Why I Am, “How to Bowl. An Aid For Girls. “The Care of the Mind. For Backward Children,” “Gumdrops, Their Necessity to the Human Body.” And so it goes until the clock strikes ten. Then you desperately set yourself to work, and half asleep, attempt to develop the unappropriate subject of “How to Write a Theme for English.” RAYMOND MAKOWSKY. OUR GRANDFATHER’S CLOCK Our Grandfather’s clock Is stately and tall. Its silvery shinies Are heard by all. Its Tick-Tock Passes the time of day, Sometimes its sad. Sometimes its gay. The clock is new. And what a prize! It sees a lot. And looks so wise. It keeps its secrets, Great and small. Our Grandfather’s clock Is loved by all. SHIRLEY NEWMAN, '31. EXCHANGE Killonian, Killingly H. S., Danielson, Conn.— You have a lively little paper. Keep it up. Garfield Messenger. Garfield H. S., Seattle. Wash.—You print a newsy newspaper. Your editorial comments on sports were very good. Canary and Blue, Allentown H. S., Allentown, Pa.—We liked your wide-awake magazine. Send us some more. Red and Black, Rogers H. S., Newport, R. I. —Your departments are good, especially the grab-box called “Ye Orack. High School Herald. Westfield H. S., West-field, Mass.—We enjoyed the literary dept, very much. Editorials too. Quarterly, Stamford H. S.. Stamford, Conn. —Your literary was wonderful. We’d like a few more cuts tho.

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CLASS OF 1931—Room 4

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20 THE (iREEN AND WHITE AN IMPORTANT MAN “Will you kindly give me information as to the extent of the spread of the aboriginal sloth northward?” This from a young man of distinguished mien. In fact, so distinguished is he that he has been appointed the Bristol Agent for the sale of Glover's Dog Soap, whose motto is: The more you use, the more you need. But this is only one of the many diversions of this gifted young philanthropist. He is an important cog in the machinery of this school, devoting himself partly to the Classics, and partly to the coarser and more material studies. In fact, so great is his devotion to the latter arts, that he has already sacrificed one hand, to say nothing of his eyebrows, to the cause of “Science.” Outside of school he languishes in a store where are sold, the causes of the fat of the land, and the rivals of moonlight for the birth of romance. He keeps late hours and it is believed that, after such intensive study, he is well acquainted with Dan Cupid, and all his tricks. Gifted as he is—he has, like all great men, minor faults. He is an incorrigible pedant. We feel, however, that this, so-called weakness is only a manifestation of his extreme kindness and generosity. He believes, apparently. that the only way for him to raise his schoolmates to the high plane which he has attained, is to furnish them with a living example of what knowledge really is. His appearance—but is it necessary to scrutinize his countenance too closely? For if we do so, we are likely to be disappointed. His face is in no way unusual and possesses none of the characteristics generally ascribed by the common herd, to genuises. We must remember, however, “That great Oaks from Little Acorns grow.” HAROLD DeWOLF. RAYMOND’S PLAY (With apologies to Mary’s Lamb) T Raymond wrote a little play, Its plot was white as snow. And everywhere that Raymond went That play was sure to go. II. He brought it up to school one day And read it to the boys; In a Barrymorcish manner He outlined all its joys. I'll. “What makes those boys all strut about?” An anxious teacher cried; “Why Raymond built himself a play,” Said a Junior with some pride. IV. And so the children listcned-in. The days each seemed a year; They waited patiently about 'Till “O Hector” did appear. V. And when it came—so lustily With music, lines—and how ! It made th auditorium ring And Mr. Dowd—a wow! FRITZI DUNBAR. DIARY OF A SMALL BOY June 5—Today is Friday. Ma says I’m going to grandma's farm for a couple of weeks. I hope she has a lot of chickens cause I like to chase them. June 6—Hurrah. I got here at last and she’s got chickens and pigs and cows. Oh, what fun! Grandpa let me feed the chickens. Old Speckles has three new chicks. June 7—Today I chased three roosters around the farm. One old fellow flew over the fence into the road and a passing truck killed it. Good enough for him. He’ll stay in the yard next time. June 8—Had to wipe dishes this morning. I went to see the kid on the next farm after I got through. He wears glasses and has piles of freckles. He's a regular sissy. I thought sissies were only in the city. He plays paper dolls with his sister. June 9—Went fishing today. Caught a catfish. I cooked it over the fire I had and ate it. Don't know what happened to it but it tasted funny. June 12—Hello, Diary, I'm sorry I couldn't come any sooner, but 1 was sick abed and had to have the doctor. He put a funny thing on my chest which tickled. I guess it must have been the catfish that made me sick. June 15—Today is Thursday. Grandma said she’d be so happy when I went back home. Nothing exciting happened today. June 17—I'm going home on the 19th. Grandma’s getting my clothes packed. I wanted her to pack some of the different nails 1 collected, but she threw them out of the window. June 18—I said “Good-bye” to all the chickens and pigs. I kissed the cow and Grandma made me wash my face after I did. June 19—Home at last. Good-bye diary. Into the trunk you go. EMILY VELLECA, '31. THE SENTINEL Softly, gently, the pine tree sighed— Sighed to the wind as he silently cried: Winter is coming tomorrow morn, And all the flowers are withered and gone. Gone to a land of colors bright Where there's never winter, never night. The souls of the flowers have taken flight To a haven of warmth, a place of delight. And all the trees have gone to sleep. 1 alone am left, the vigil to keep. Alone, and lonesome in the silent wrood. But bravely erect and tall he stood. All thru the snowy, cold winter long, The pine whispered and murmured his song. He kept his promise to watch and care Over all the forest 'til Spring wras there. KATHLEEN KELLEY, '29. COMPLIMENTS OF C. J. Sartini QUALITY FOOTWEAR 840 Wood St.