Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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I ' res. — What is the name of that citizen? Darnay. — That citizen is first witness. I have also that fact. Pres. — Let this letter be read. (Here Gabelle ' s letter Is read by the Public Prosecutor.) Pres.— Gabelle, come forward and confirm this letter. Gabelle — Your Honor, I wrote this letter to Charles Dar- nay on June 21, 1792. I wrote it from the Prison of the Abbaye. Your Honor, with the great pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of enemies of the Re- public, I think I have been slightly overlooked, until three days ago, when I was summoned before it and set free by the Jury ' s declaring that the accusation against me was answered by the surrender of Charles Darnay. Pres. — Very well. Now let us hear from Dr. Manette. Dr. Manette — Yes, Your Honor. Pres. — Dr. Manette, how long have you known Darnay? Manette — I have known Darnay ever since he was court- ing my daughter. In fact, he was my first friend on my release from my long imprisonment. Pres. — You are quite sure that the accused bore no title when in England? Manette — Yes, I am very sure. Pres. — Was the accused a favorite of the Aristocrat government there? Manette — Sir, he was far from a favorite of the govern- ment for he was actually tried for his life by it, as a foe to England and a friend of the United States. Mr. Lorry, here, a representative of Tellson ' s, will confirm this statement. Chm. of Jury — Your Honor, the Jury has heard enough and we are ready to cast our votes when Your Honor is content to receive them. Pres. — I am ready, sir, to hear the Jury ' s vote. (Each Juryman votes aloud and individually. All the votes are in the prisoner ' s favor. After each vote the audi- ence shouts applause.) Pres. — After due consideration, I declare Charles Evre- monde free. Lucius W. Evans, ' 32. THE OLD FIDDLER OF ST. MADELEINE With a feeble sigh Grandpere Auguste tenderly laid aside the fiddle which he had been fondling. His gaunt, decrepit hands trembled as he placed the violin in its case. A look of mingled sadness and anxiety appeared on the wrinkled, venerable, old face, loved and revered by all the simple country folk in the little Canadian village of St. Madeleine. Grandpere, he was called by all from the small- est tot to the hoariest ancient of the vill age. And well he deserved to bear that title. He had been the village fiddler ever since anyone could remember, enlivening every party or ball with his entrancing music. But the passing of time had taken its toll on Grandpere Auguste. His fiddle no longer produced that enrapturing rhythm which was so irresistible to dancers. Gone was that magical touch which had so endeared him to the hearts of the loving villagers. So now, Grandpere Auguste was ruminating over his lost powers and thinking of the annual ball that was to be held that night, where for the first time in many years he would not be present with his beloved fiddle. A knock at the door aroused him from his reverie. Come in, he called softly. The door opened and Henri Lafitte, one of his staunch- est admirers, a typical young Canadian woodsman, walked awkwardly into the room. He was evidently ill at eas e and he spoke with embarrassment. Grandpere, he began, tonight ze grand dance weel be held. One have tol ' me you cannot play. So they have bring a phonograph from ze city. Pour moi, I do not go. Bah, dat ees not museek. With these words he left the room. It was now eight o ' clock. The villagers had all gathered at the public dance hall. In spite of the gaiety of the oc- casion, there was an evident lack of merriment. The danc- ing had not yet begun, nor were there any manifestations of impatience among the unenthusiastic couples. Suddenly someone cried, Ze Grandpere Auguste! ! ! Surely enough, there in the doorway stood the aged fiddler with his violin under his arm. A strange light shone in his eyes as he walked to the center of the floor. He raised a hand for silence and began to speak. My friends, he said in a tremulous voice, I have play for you many time ze violin. More time dan I can remem- ber. Now I am ol ' an ' feeble. My skeel appear to be gone. But tonight I weel not have need of it. Thees weel be ze last time an ' with ze help of le bon Dieu, I weel mek ' ze mos ' belle museek of my life. Immediately the hall resounded with tunes that defy description. It seemed as though the old man had reserved his ability and energy all for that one night. True, he had always been acclaimed as the most accomplished of artists, but tonight ' s performance surpassed his previous efforts beyond any degree of comparison. Everybody was dancing. So rapidly and so fervently did the tunes follow one another, that even the most ardent dancer could barely keep the pace. Before anyone could realize it, the bells in the vil- lage church were sounding the hour of midnight. With the first stroke Grandpere paused, but before any of his enchanted audience could speak a word of remon- strance, he resumed playing. But what was this? Instead of a lively dance tune, there came the inspired notes of a song so beautiful and so divine that every dancer stood awe- stricken with heads bowed. It was a haunting, plaintive melody, which would have brought iron tears down Pluto ' s cheek, as it did down those of the old violinist ' s listeners. As he played, a sublime and holy look spread over his coun- tenance. On his lips fiitted the sweet, tender smile of a pure soul. His eyes were half -closed and he played as though in a dream. With each dilatory stroke of the vil- lage clock, the notes of the fiddle increased in beauty and sadness. The interval between each stroke seemed to the listeners hours apart. As the last echoes of the twelfth stroke died away, the song came to an end as suddenly as it had begun. Then, a shrill, agonizing scream from one of the women; the old fiddler lay on the floor, his fiddle clutched closely to his heart. Grandpere Auguste had sounded his own funeral knell. Nicholas Quinzio, ' 30.

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buoyed up by a force equal to the weight of the water dis- placed. These laws are never changed, broken, or repealed. You can always put A and B together and get C. There is a certain pleasure in going into the laboratory and experimenting with chemicals or apparatus. You may be performing an experiment from a text book which states a specific result. If at the conclusion of your experiment you have obtained the same result, you have the satisfaction of knowing your experiment was a success. Such are the delights of the laboratory. The modern conceptions of electricity and matter are impressive. By laboratory experiments it is now definitely established that the atom is no longer the smallest divisible part of matter, but consists of various groupings of elec- trons and protons. The theory further states that the electrons revolve around the nucleus or protons in the same manner that the planets revolve about the sun. The prob- ability that there is some connection between these facts is very strong indeed. Perhaps the same law of the Master Creator governs both. Here, then, is where the laboratory has its greatest ap- peal — research! To spend hours in the laboratory experi- menting with what knowledge we have, possibly finding out new things, advancing new theories on the ultimate con- struction of matter, is a profession one should be ex- tremely proud of — one in which I hope to engage. Lloyd N. Owen, ' 30. HAVE YOU ANY — NO! SORRY June may have its graduation, its blossoms, and its roses, but to the boy who wants to earn some summer money it is a month of agony generally speaking, of course. First, there is the frantic glance at the newspapers ' employment columns. Then, the daily pilgrimage to town, interviews — a few — but in most places the same old slogans, Not just now, Sorry, maybe later, or You might fill out this little blank. Where is the courageous individual who can face these time-worn responses day after day and yet remain undiscouraged? It pays to be pessimistic, for he who has too much con- fidence in his ability to get work quickly, is often the victim of a terrible delusion. A veteran job-seeker who knows the ropes of his trade — for it certainly is an art in itself, this job-hunting — does not wander aimlessly from one employ- ment office to another, does not seek where there is no prey; he starts his operations in the springtime before graduation arrives. If he desires a position in some hotel — the line of least resistance-he writes to approximately twenty hotel managers stating his purpose. One who has an eye for the future and temporarily forgets the joys of a summer vacation makes early application for work in offices of high repute. Of course, there is the happy medium of summer work, good wages, time for recreation, and a pleasant environment, but these are, unluckily, rare discoveries in the world of labor. The only difficulty is this: we must all be novices at some time in everything we undertake, and the unversed job- seeker deserves all the sympathy that can be given. Merritt Stockbridge, ' 30. TRIUMPH A play in one act adapted from Dickens ' famous novel The Tale of Two Cities. Time: A morning in the year 1880 during the French Revolution. Place: A small, dirty courtroom in Paris. Characters: Charles Evremonde, called Darney — a prisoner. Lucie Manette — his wife. Dr. Manette — Lucie ' s father. Gabelle — an old servant. President of Tribunals. Four other Tribunals. Public Prosecutor. Jury and Mob including the Defrages and Mr. Lorry. Public Prosecutor (reading) — Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, is accused as an emigrant whose life is forfeit to the Republic, under the decree which banishes all emi- grants on pain of death. It is true that the decree bore date since his return to France but that is nothing. There he is, and there is the decree; he was taken in this country and his head is demanded. Mob — Take off his head. Take off his head. An enemy to the Republic. Pres. (after ringing bell) — Is it true, emigrant, that you have lived many years in England? Darnay — Yes, undoubtedly it is true. Pres. — Are you not an emigrant then? What do you call yourself? Darnay — Not an emigrant within the sense and spirit of the law. Pres.— Why not? Darnay — Because I voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful to me, and a station that was distasteful to me, and I left my country to live by my own industry of the overladen people of France. Pres. — What proof have you of this? Darnay — Two witnesses: Theophile Gabelle, and Dr. Manette. Pres. — But you were married in England. Darnay — True, but not an English woman. Pres. — A citizeness of France? Darnay — Yes. By birth. Pres. — What is her name and family? Darnay — Lucie Manette, only daughter of Dr. Manette, the good physician who sits there. Mob (whose attitude had changed) — Hurrah for Dr. Manette! Long live Alexandre Manette! Pres. — Why did you return to France when you did, and not sooner? Darnay — I did not return sooner simply because I had no means of living in France save those I had resigned; whereas, in England I lived by giving instructions in the French language and literature. I returned when I did, on the pressing and written entreaty of a French citizen who represented that his life was endangered by my absence. I came back to save a citizen ' s life, and to bear my testi- mony at whatever personal hazard to the truth. Is that criminal in the eyes of the Republic? Mob— No! No! No! No! No!

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R2l 5 J4. L ; 1 U 0 POETRY THE PRINTER Pick and click go the type in the stick As the printer stands at his case; His eyes glance quick, and his fingers pick The type at a rapid pace; And one by one as the letters go, Words are piled up steady and slow, Steady and slow. But still they grow. And words of fire they soon will glow. Wonderful words, that without a sound Traverse the earth to its utmost bound; Words that can crumble an army ' s might. Or treble its strength in a righteous fight. Yet the types they look so leaden and dumb, As he puts them in place with his finger and thumb But the printer smiles, By chanting a song as the letters he piles. Oh where is the man with such simple tools Can govern the world as I? With a printing press, an iron stick. And a little leaden die. Say, where is he, who may he be That can rival the printer ' s power? The printer still grows, and God only knows When his might shall cease to tower! George Curley, ' 30. LIFE ' S CLOCK The clock of life is wound but once. And no man has the power. To tell just when the clock will stop. At late or early hour. Now is the only time you own. Live, love, toil with a will. Place no faith in tomorrow. For the clock may then be still. Ruth Surette, ' 33. Joan Foster, ' 30 THE RAIN Silently, softly, comes the rain Shrouding in gray each hill and plain. Dripping off leaves all glistening wet, Down through birches ' thirsty net. Fine as mist and without sound. Noiselessly sifting down to ground. Clarence Doore, ' 31. DAWN The grey-robed clouds on eastern hills Are softly gliding from their beds. In ecstasy they raise their heads. With silver down, the sky soon fills. For Day is opening its eye. And as the Sun ' s great fiery face Comes peering, all the grey clouds race. With master brush Dawn paints the sky. Bright dyes the phantom artists use To give those gleaming, gorgeous shades, Which look like fire that slowly fades And brings the Day in brilliant hues. Elizabeth Ridlon, ' 30. BOOKS Books are sometimes boresome things. When we have studies drear. One feels his head with wisdom ring. And brains begin to sear. Books are sometimes pleasant things. When we make them our friends. Some vision of their message clings When life its sorrow sends. Books are always friends or bores, Whate ' er may be our mood. A treasure full of gold is yours. If books have been your food. Donovan C. Taylor, ' 31.