Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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a friend of hers, Lady Howard, at Howard Grove. Prom that point he is unwillingly persuaded to let Evelina accom- pany Lady Howard ' s daughter, Mrs. Mirvan, on a visit to London, where Mrs. Mirvan is to meet her husband, a captain in the Navy, who has been gone for seven years. Oddly enough, one of the first persons they meet is Madame Duval travelling with a Frenchman named Du Bois. The Mirvans, who have been temporizing with Madame Duval in order to keep Evelina with them as long as pos- sible, are now obliged to surrender her for a time to her grandmother, by whom she is carried to London. Eventually she returns to Mr. Villars, her guardian. During her stay in Holborn, she has become acquainted with a young Scotchman named Macartney, whom she saves from suicide. In Paris, Macartney has fallen in love with a beautiful English girl, the alleged daughter of a baronet, who turns out to be Sir John Belmont himself, Evelina ' s father. This girl, Bessie Green, was palmed off upon the great remorse of John Belmont, as his long-lost daughter. Finally at Bath, things turn out right. While Evelina is there on a visit, her father meets her, and her striking resemblance to her dead mother is unmistakable. She is at once acknowledged by her father, and finally, she bestows her hand upon Lord Orville, the best of her suitors. The distinctive merit of this book lies in the skillful character drawing. The clever contrast in different indiv- iduals is marked throughout the novel. I enjoyed, especially, the method of the author ' s writing from the point of view of the heroine and in the letter form. Frances Burney seems to portray her younger self in the person of Evelina. Madame Duval, in particular, produced the comedy. It is diflBicult to understand how any man could have wed her. Her English was illiterate, and every now and then she tagged on French words. The only touch of tenderness which I perceived in her nature was her solicitude for her poor French companion. I noticed no admirable traits in Madame Duval ' s character, but I at least felt sorry for her when so many practical jokes were played on her. I recommend this novel to all pupils who like effective character drawing and authentic portrayal of conditions in a remote era. Rose Assenza, ' 30. A MODERN ROMEO Romeo was dreaming. But this was not nearly as amaz- ing as it sounds, for Romeo was always dreaming. He sat at the end of a large dinner table, his soup spoon wedged firmly between a pair of even, white teeth, and his eyes staring vacantly into space. Suddenly he heard his name called from outside. Romeo, Senor Romeo. He jumped up from the table, and dashed out to the balcony. There, below him stood his man-servant, Bernado. Mees Fay, she ees drown, he exclaimed breathlessly, in broken English. Do you mean that Fay Cadet is drowning? cried Romeo excitedly. Si, Senor, answered the obedient servant. Get my horse in front of the house in two minutes, commanded Romeo. Bernado was strapping the saddle on a great, black horse when Romeo reached the pavilion, and in a moment Romeo was off. When he reached the crest of the mountain, he gazed long and hard through his field glasses. He could see the San Jose River winding slowly on its narrow, rocky course. On the river he saw a small, black speck moving swiftly in the falls. Romeo spurred his horse on. Once moving he was flying along the bare ridges. In five minutes or so, he had reached the bank where the falls dropped down thirty feet. He saw a frail raft bearing a terror-stricken girl, coming down the river. A moment later as the raft reached the head of the falls, he was ready. Slowly and surely he flung the rope. It slipped easily about her slim waist. For a moment the raft hesitated, then crashed over the falls leaving Fay clinging to the rocks. Romeo held the rope firmly, and pulling gently, he assisted her to the shore. As she stepped out on the bank, Romeo seized the wet figure in his arms and cried, — Romeo, shrieked his mother, come back to earth. Romeo jumped, removed the spoon from his mouth, and went on eating his porridge. Virginia Lee, ' 32. A VISIT TO A BATTLEFIELD A cool breeze is blowing over the meadows, snatching up the sweet fragrance of every little flower and every blade of grass, and throwing it playfully in my face. The rolling fields of hay sway and ripple in the wind, like the restless breast of the ocean. From the clear sky above the song of the meadow lark floats down, warbling and trilling in the cool morning air. One would imagine such a scene of peace and beauty, to be a section of the Elysian fields. And yet ten years ago on these same fields was waged one of the fiercest battles of the World War. Here, the big guns rent the heavens with their relentless crashing; here the Ger- man advance was checked, and thousands of American boys gave their all to the cause. On the paths the birds now traverse, the airmen once winged their way, spreading death and devastation through the land. Where the crickets chirp the rifles of the allies once cracked. Now once more I wander over the rolling hills. Here and there are deep ragged holes where some shell burst, tearing the bosom of the earth. A long crooked ditch, in which runs a little stream of water, shows me the spot where the dough-boys threw up entrenchments. I find an occa- sional bayonet or broken rifle, which perhaps marks the resting place of some soldier. Finally I come to a little fenced-in plot fllled with white crosses, here, indeed, is the spot where some Americans are buried. I hurry on now, for the day is drawing to a close. The cool breeze which has blown throughout the day has ceased, and all is quiet. I have reached the top of a hill, and, as I look off in the distance, I see silhouetted against the red and golden rays of the setting sun, the crumbling walls of a ruined church, and beside it a dead tree, stripped of foliage, seeming to raise its bare arms to Heaven in prayer. These two stand as memorials of the famous battle of the Marne. I turn to go, and, as I walk swiftly homeward through the gathering dusk, I hear faintly, yet distinctly, the last clear notes of Taps : All is well, safely rest, God is nigh. The night drops her curtain of stygian blackness, and the quiet of a summer eve is upon me. Stephen Rogers, ' 30.

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Throughout the pages of this novel I objected chiefly to the wordiness of the letters that were introduced, for it seemed that the lengthy descriptions introduced therein re- tarded the action. After reading novels of modern times, so direct in their presentation of thoughts, it also proved difficult to adapt my mind to a steady perusal of the subtle speeches that were characteristic of the eighteenth century courtiers. In all other respects I found The Seats of the Mighty to be pleasant reading. The plot itself is well developed, and at no place in the reading does one lose sight of the main characters and their occupations. The hero, a Virginian and a captain in the English Army, having been captured by the French, is held unlawfully as a hostage in Quebec for more underlying rea- sons than his situation as a prisoner of war would warrant. Despite the fact that he has been made the victim of cruel intrigue. Captain Moray ' s brave spirit is never reduced to the despairing attitude that a severe imprisonment like his often produces. The author ' s characterization of the lovely French heroine is well presented and proves that this man is one of the few writers who openly idealize the influence of a faithful and adoring woman over a man ' s attitude towards his position, no matter how discouraging it may be. To maintain her part in obtaining the freedom of her lover, this remarkable heroine plays a double role: one phase portrays her among her courtly countrymen as a woman of the world, flippant and sage; but the true side of her nature, foremost only where her lover is concerned, reveals her as a girl, virtuous, tender, but not unsophisticated. The reader will enjoy also the minor characters — al- though few and minor because of their importance to the story ' s motivation — for to each one the author has attrib- uted captivating personalities — Doltaire, the unscrupulous master; Gabord, the soldier; Voban, the barber — all these will interest you. It may be said truthfully that even though the com- plicated foundations of the plot may seem to require much exposition, the thrilling sequence of events appearing at the end rewards the patient reader. Merritt Stockbridge, ' 30. SITTING IN EASY CHAIRS Sitting in some modern easy chairs is not so easy. I think there is nothing more uncomfortable than an uncomfortable easy chair. The uneasiness of many easy chairs is often augmented by pillows and cushions that are placed on the chair, I think, for their pretty colors rather than for their comfort. Personally, my greatest difficulty in settling comfort- ably in easy chairs is in my trying to read a book. Then the manipulation of an erratic bridge lamp, unruly cush- ions, and a body which loves ease enter into my quest for comfort. I have a weakness for crossing my legs over the arm of the chair. My usual procedure is to sit down, place my legs over a cushion of the arm of the chair, open the book, and prepare to enjoy an evening of reading. Grad- ually my senses tell me that the extremely hard cushion at my neck is not high enough. I adjust this and continue to read, only to find that I have lost the place. I then wonder why I am not comfortable and move the pillow on the arm of the chair to the floor. My brother, meanwhile, has changed the position of the lamp, and I am left much in the dark. After a verbal argument with my brother that nearly ends in my resort- ing to force, I compromise. Peace reigns, but not for long. The cushion at my neck has lowered itself until it is half- way down my back. By this time I become slightly peeved, and I am almost ready to give in. However, with a desper- ate resolve to be the victor, I deposit the remaining cushion on the floor (rather forcibly I confess), place my feet flrmly on the floor, and settle back to read. In this position I peruse my book to the tune of jazz songs, would-be come- dians, and screeching sopranos — for half an hour. Then I decide to get some real comfort in bed. Francis Magee, ' 31. A SOPHOMORE ' S DREAM One night Willie Whoosis went to bed and dreamed a very strange dream. His dream is my story. It is A Tale of Two Cities (one city is London; the other, Rome) and concerns one sailing vessel and all on board. The captain is William Shakespeare, The Ancient Mariner, and the crew is made up of Julius Caesar, Brutus, Orlando, and Silas Marner. The passengers are Rosalind, Benjamin Franklin, Sohrab and Rustum, (who are two brutish Ara- bian gentlemen), and the Vicar of Wakefleld. The ship is sailing from London to Rome. On the first day out Brutus kills Julius Caesar and then commits suicide. On the same day Orlando falls in love with Rosalind, which is another bad break. The ship is not safely manned, as only Shakespeare and Silas Marner are now left of the crew. (Orlando is more bother than good in his present love-sick state.) On the first night out, the ship strikes a rock. In the mad rush to the lifeboats, Rosalind falls overboard and Orlando dives after her. They are picked up by the rest of the passengers and proceed to sail, by dead reckoning, for land. Rosalind accepts Orlando ' s proposal of marriage. Benjamin Franklin prints all the wedding announcements. Next the twain are united by the Vicar of Wakefield. Sohrab and Rustum pay their respects to the married couple and promise to give each a genuine Arabian horse. Captain Shakespeare sights land and in a few minutes all are back on terra firma once more. This story can be believed or not, it ' s Just As You Like It. Stephen Brennan, ' 32. EVELINA At the beginning of 1778, English literature, and espe- cially fiction, seems to have suffered a kind of sleeping sickness. The great writers such as Fielding, Richardson, and Walpole were the only living writers of any em.ncnje. In January, 1778, Frances Burney ' s book, Evelina or A Young Lady ' s Entrance into the World , was published. The plot of this novel is not intricate. First we are acquainted with the parentage and the early history of the heroine, Evelina Anville, or more properly Belmont. At the beginning of the story, her low-born grandmother, Madame Duval, having ignored her for seventeen years, begins to show signs of obtaining control over her, much to the dismay of her guardian, the Reverend Mr. Villars. But nothing happens until Mr. Villars permits Evelina to visit

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Im Qiraia Tnere is no nope. POOR LITTLE TIMOTHY They had been married for more than three years, but still they were very young and very foolish. Still the air of a summer evening affected him as he sat with her in the hammock. I ' ll always be in love with you. Always? Always. A blissful sigh escaped her lips. She could feel his worshipful gaze upon her. She looked into his eyes and then — Of course, little Timothy couldn ' t understand the funny gasps and murmurs he heard coming from behind the ham- mock. He was much too young to understand such things. He didn ' t know it was improper to disturb persons sitting together in hammocks, so he pattered up and looked inno- cently at Marge. She bounced him up in her lap and cud- dled him. Timmy been a good baby? she cooed. Little Timothy snuggled closer to Marge. Marge snug- gled closer to big Timothy. Love was grand, but it was get- ting late, and little Timothy ' s bedtime was long past. C ' mon, cunning, said Marge, rousing herself and set- ting little Timothy on his own feet. Those big brown eyes won ' t have diamonds in them any more ' less you get your beauty sleep. While Marge was putting little Timothy to bed up in the den, big Timothy watched and enjoyed it, for wherever Marge went, Timothy went, too. That ' s what love does. Marge looked at Timothy and giggled softly. Isn ' t my little Timmy the dearest son in the world? she asked. Absolutely, laughed Timothy. I don ' t see why she giggled or why he laughed, but they did. Perhaps they had a secret. Next morning (it was Saturday), Marge was rolling bis- cuits in her spic, span kitchen, when little Timothy came begging for something to eat. She looked at him and sighed. Don ' t bother Mumsie now, she said. Run along out in the yard and play. She opened the door for him. Little Timothy didn ' t want to go out and play. He wanted to stay in the kitchen and have something to eat. But Marge Insisted. C ' mon, step on it, she urged. Reluctantly little Timothy trudged out the door and sat himself down on the steps. His brown eyes were sad. Every day he played in the same yard, caged in by the same board fence. He didn ' t know why there had to be a fence, but everyone else knew that the railroad tracks were on the other side. He had always been strangely fascinated by the great roarings and rumblings on the other side of the fence. Now he was determined to find out what they were. He searched for a hole under the fence but found none. Then he began to dig. Back in the kitchen. Marge glanced at the clock. It was nearly noon. Everything was ready and waiting for big Timothy, who would come home on the 12.03. Marge went to the door and called for little Timothy, Come, Tim! Come, Tim! No answer. Probably he ' d gone back in the house. She would look. No, he wasn ' t in the pantry. Maybe the parlor — no, not unless he was hiding behind the sofa. No, not there. Wretch, where are you? she said aloud. In the den, I bet. She would have trotted upstairs, but j ust then she heard the rumble of the 12.03. Instead, she rushed to the hall mir- ror, patted her hair in place, and smiled sweetly at her reflection. Still she was a little thrilled when Timothy came home. Suddenly above the rumblings of the passing train, she heard the sh-sh-sh-h-h and the shrill squealing of the brakes. Why was the 12.03 stopping here? She heard the signal whistle blow — one-two-three-four-five— Five! An accident ! Marge ran to the back door. Big Timothy and another man were coming into the yard carrying something. Tim ' s face looked pale and frightened. Could it be — ? Marge tried hard not to think that, but one look into Tim ' s eyes told her it was true. The train had struck little Timothy. He might be dead. No, no — it couldn ' t be that. In this way, Tim was saying. We ' ll put him on the sofa. Get a blanket. Marge, and call the doctor. Marge obeyed. I ' ll be right over, the doctor assured her. She did her best to make little Timothy comfortable. All the while his tiny body was trembling unconsciously. He was very bloody, but he was still warm and alive. It was really only five minutes before the doctor came. Even in that time, the trembling little body had become cooler, quieter. Now the doctor was saying seriously, I ' m afraid there ' s no hope. Marge swallowed the lump in her throat. She tried hard to keep back the tears as she knelt beside the sofa. Tenderly she laid her hand on the little head and mur- mured, Poor little Timothy. She bit her lip and looked up at big Tim, smiling sadly. Tim smiled back. Cheer up, darling, he said, patting her shoulder. We ' ll give him a real funeral, and if — If what? If you ' ll promise not to name it after me, I ' ll buy you another dog just as nice as that one. Carol Lee, ' 31.