Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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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.

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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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MOONLIGHT FROM HAWKE ' S CLIFF THE BOBOLINK I stop to lean against a giant tree. I ' m at the top, my long, hard climb is done; And gazing down to earth from whence I came, I wonder how I ' m here, so far above That somber forest, black and far below. Down there ' tis dark, as dark as ignorance, And not a moonbeam penetrates the gloom; And yet from there I started all alone, Making my way along the tangled trails, Unmindful of the dangers lurking near. ' Twas dark and damp — I cannot quite forget The kiss of dewy cobwebs on my cheek. The feel of clinging fern about my feet. The sound of bull-frogs grumbling from the swamps, The frightened cries of wild folk underfoot. At last I reach the ladders, standing stark Upright against the mossy slabs of rock. And there begins my difficult ascent First clutching, slipping, falling, then again I gain my feet and crawl on towards the top. I mean to get there, far above this threatening realm Of choking darkness fraught with hidden fears. For here ' tis dark, yet higher up I know The moon is shining bright, revealing all That merely may be dreamed of down below. At last I stand as high as I can go. I look out, far beyond the forest black And gaze on wonders far beyond my dreams: Vast rising mountains, dipping dells and vales, A silver pit of sand, a mirrored lake. The river, winding ' round its magic course, A wonderland of shadows, moonlight-laced. Created by the trees that grace her banks While slumbering cattle lie at peace and rest, Stirring when the rapids swifter grow. And all is wonderful, and I am here. Where I may gaze upon the moonlit world Forgetting all the dangers and the fears Through which I ' ve passed to reach the top; But still, I know I ' ve earned my prize. Yet never could I reach the top above. If others ne ' er had toiled their way before. The ladders were all made and placed for me And I hac but to climb the slippery rungs; This in itself was work enough for me. ' Tis so in Life: we start in ignorance. And follow in the steps of those before; But many steps we have to take alone And higher we must go for higher gain. Then, when we reach the top, the world is ours. Jeanette Downing, ' 31. Up from the creek, Down from the hill. There comes that whistle, So loud and shrill. The Bobolink, So bright and gay. Sings to the sun, At break of day. In winter time, He southward goes, And leaves behind. The land of snows. When Spring comes back. With sun and rain. His cheerful song. We ' ll hear again. John Hogg, ' 31. EVENING Across the painted evening sky. Behind the hills where shadows lie, A golden orb is sinking slow, Tinting the clouds with amber glow. The gentle zephyrs whispering near Dispel all terrifying fear. And Night in mystic mantle dressed To all the world gives peace and rest. Richard Hayes, ' 30. BOYHOOD DAYS Boyhood days, Joyhood days. Better than all earth ' s gold. But the time you feel their longing steal. Is when you ' re growing old. Ruth Surrette, ' 33. THOUGHTS 1% is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; Through the grey, light drift of dust, in the keen, cool rush of the air, Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink. Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the fox- glove, purple and white; Where the shy-eyed, delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink. When the stars are mellow and bright, at the coming on of night. Andrew Mansfield, ' 32.