Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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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.

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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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A PESSIMISTIC HUMORIST I have a reputation to uphold. The whole miserable affaii- started when I was in the eighth grade, and I shall relate to you as best I can all the sordid details. Being a gentleman at heart, I am not blaming Betty in the least, but no matter how one looks at the situation, it really was her fault. Sometimes, when in a particularly gloomy mood, I go so far as to declare that she has utterly ruined my life, my prospects for a happy future, but upon saner consider- ation I realize that she has only partly done so. The fatal event occurred one day when she and I were walking to school together. In order to be faithful to de- tail I may as well add that Betty, in my eyes, possessed the combined virtues of all the Roman goddesses; however, since that memorable day, my attitude toward her has gradually changed. She was doing most of the talking, as usual, and I was doing most of the listening, as usual. Switching from the subject of party dresses to the question of why people salt therr bananas, she finally said something about writing letters and how glad she was to receive mail. I distinctly remember how my heart jumped at the word MAIL. For the first time in my life a flash of unadulter- ated inspiration flashed upon my mind. I punned. Boldly I punned. Said I, You like mail, Betty — hum, ah — well — here ' s one bit of male you may have for the asking. She, poor female, was delighted. In her eyes I became a humorist. I, possessor of a perpetually funereal attitude, already a champion of serious thought, hater of Harold Lloyd comedies, a wit! I omit the harrowing details. The news spread under Betty ' s professional care. I spent minutes at a time mourn- fully contemplating humorous things to say. I became proficient in the beastly practice; my reputation grew; and here I am, a pessimistic wit. The future looks gloomy. Think of the years and years of trying to be funny! I ' m not blaming Betty in the least, but it really is her fault. I cannot stop, for I have a reputation to uphold. Norman Balcom, ' 30. BIRDLAND ' S ANDANTE The most beautiful day of summer had finally settled into an evening which I shall long remember. I was sitting on a grassy bank along the shore of a lake, watching the red and gold of the sunset fade into oblivion. Suddenly, from away off in the woods, I heard the soft, sweet melody of the hermit thrush. He sang his song in a hushed tone, which lulled the calmness into stillness. Then the quiet was rudely broken by a startling sound — it was the squawk of the loon, accompanied by the whoot of the owl. That loud chord lasted for but a moment. When it stopped, more hermit thrushes had taken up a strain which sounded like a heavenly choir. Thus it continued until the rays of the sun were almost gone. With the dying sunset, the music diminished; finally all I could hear was the clear note of one bird, far in the distance. At last it, too, was stilled into a tone of triple pianissimo and then it ended. Nature had, to my mind, reproduced the great Surpise Symphony by Josef Haydn. If I were a composer and had never heard Haydn ' s Andante, I would have interpreted the natural performance by music. Esther Hanson, ' 31. MODERN SURGERY ' S LATEST ACQUISITION Without a doubt, the unique, the most priceless, ana the most beneficial gain for the surgical world is the radio knife . This knife is simply an insulated pencil with a needle attached to one end. It utilizes a high frequency current which is generated by means of radio vacuum tubes. A high frequency generator, which is housed in a portable case, is connected by a wire to the needle. The heat of the knife sterilizes the tissues which are about to be cut. The knife is capable of cutting into the body without any flow of blood whatever, because as incisions are made it sears the arteries. It also seals up the sensory nerves and thus elim- inates pain entirely. Because of this fact, it greatly speeds up a patient ' s recovery. It leaves no scars whatever, and it has been used very efficaciously for face operations. It is also very useful in removing growth from the tongue and roof of the mouth. There now seems to be great hope of at last conquering that dreaded human disease — cancer, which is more commonly known as a malignant spreading tumor. Although I possess no desire to be operated on, I must state that I should certainly feel decidedly safe if I should have to undergo an operation with this knife. George Moses, ' 30. TIM KELLEY ' S HA ' NT Ha ' nts, said Kelso Jimmie, is funny critters. Take the ha ' nt of Tim Kelley for one. That dem ghost stays right there at the Blazed Pine Cabin and watches the hole where old Tim buried his treasure. Aw, you can ' t even get a thrill out of ghosts nowa- days, yawned Neil Prentice. Kelso Jimmie drew out his long hunting knife and tested its sharp blade on his thumb-nail. Tell you what I ' ll do, Neil, he said slowly. I ' ll bet you your next turn at cooking that you can ' t stick without meeting the ha ' nt. Neil Prentice laughed aloud. I ' ll go right up to the cabin. Neil reached for the knife. The three campers rose. Guess I ' ll pile a lot of wood on the flre, said Eddie McKim. Neil laughed. You might stay here and keep it going instead of coming with me. If a haunt runs me out of that cabin I ' ll cook and wash dishes for a week. When Eddie had finished piling wood onto the flre, the party started out for the cabin. After a few minutes of hiking Kelso halted. If there ' s any running done, see that you all stick together. It ' s easy to get lost up here, he said in a low voice. Aw, there won ' t be any running done unless some of you fellows get panicky while I ' m in the cabin, broke in Neil. When the cabin loomed in sight through the gray fog, Neil started off alone toward the building. He entered it. A few minutes elapsed when, all of a sudden, the watchers heard a yell, a crash and footsteps coming down the slope. A second later Neil, running like mad, burst from the fog. The others closed in behind him. In a short time they reached camp. When the two trailers came up Neil was standing in the light of the camp- fire holding the two ends of a torn raincoat. What happened? Eddie panted as he crowded up to Neil.