Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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silver Fokker with the customary Maltese crosses. Rapid- ly zooming for altitude, Jerry waved to his adversary, then drove down in a corkscrew power-dive, both Vickers blaz- ing. Soon he realized that his opponent was a worthy ad- versary. With flashing Immelman turns, dives, zooms, and wingovers, Hertzsheimer eluded all of Jerry ' s maneuvers. Both pilots were uselessly spraying the air with incendiary bullets. By their dives and sideslips, their altitude had been reduced to about a thousand feet. Suddenly Jerry had a brilliant idea. With a deceptive rush, he brought his plane immediately over the German, setting the Spad down carefully almost on the Fokker ' s upper wing. Hertzsheimer immediately dived, and Jerry followed him, attempting to fire a burst from his Vickers. His guns jammed! He was at the mercy of the German ace. But Jerry Alden wasn ' t the man to go down without fighting. On full throttles, his Spad crept upon the Fokker. Again he set his plane down on the German, slowly forcing him lower. They were now over the home ' drome of the Forty -third. Lower Jerry forced the German until his landing gear touched the ground. Then Jerry zoomed, and, executing a tight loop, landed. When the Spad stopped rolling, Hertzsheimer was the first to shake Jerry ' s hand. In his accented English, he compli- mented Jerry on being the finest pilot he had ever had the good fortune to battle with. In spite of his comrades ' praises, Jerry classified it as all in a day ' s work. He was a flying fool . Leonard Waite, ' 30. THE VALUE OF A GOOD BIOGRAPHER In these days of evanescent best-sellers and mass production of books as of everything else, it is a little sur- prising that biographies sell so well. Biography is en- joying a boom. I believe Lytton Strachey began it. Emil Ludwig, Maurois, and Bradford have contributed to this movement. The reason for its popularity lies perhaps in its modern treatment of the subject. We cannot change the record of a man ' s life, but we can choose the method of its presenta- tion. The modern note seems to be a tendency to clear away the debris left about a character by idol-worsnippers. Increasing knowledge enables a writer to psycho-analyze motives, rather than to cite dates. As a result, some excel- lent biographies have come from the presses. A good biography inspires. It presents truth in a frank manner. It gives sidelights on contemporary history, politics, literature, science — anything connected with life. But to me the chief value in biography is the what-man-has done-man-can-do idea. For this reason, biographies have always been recommended as reading matter for young folks. Usually the recommendation was ignored. Now, however, there is no need of this. The lives of great men are interesting. And to write such a book takes a clever man. He must be full of his subject. He must be in sympathy with the views of what might be called his biographee. He must know how to handle facts and interpret the influences which shape a man ' s character. While not perhaps among the greatest of such works, Leonard ' s Loki: The Life of Steinmetz is a fine example of what I am trying to say. A comparative reading of this book and of Hammond ' s earlier Life will bring out the difference in a more striking manner than I can. I class the former as greatly superior to the latter. In Hammond ' s account, Steinmetz is a figurehead. His character is accur- ately drawn, but he does not appear real. In Leonard ' s work, although much of the same material is covered, the difference is tremendous. We can watch the mind of this genius work. We feel the same emotions he felt. It seems that we have known him for years. Most valuable of all, any fellow who has a love of engineering or mathematics in him will get a thrill out of the account of Steinmetz ' s career at the University of Breslau. When we think that such a man actually worked and studied and lived, there is a definite stimulus which no one would ever get from a so- called inspirational article. A great man ' s infiuence is not alone on his contempo- raries. It is for all time, and the medium is his biographer. Hence the value of a good biographer to represent truly the man. Orison S. Pratt, ' 30. THE BEST PARLOR There are two parlors in my grandmother ' s little farm- house — the living room and the best parlor , as it is called. The latter is opened only on such special occasions as wed- dings and funerals. While not in use, the room is darkened as much as possible so the sun won ' t fade the bright red carpet on the softwood floor. On the walls hang heavy, gilt-edged framed portraits of bearded and powdered ancestors, gone, but not forgotten. The furniture consists of a stiff, horse-hair divan and sev- eral equally stiff chairs to match. In the center of the room stands a wobbly table on glass-knobbed legs. On this table are an ancient oil-lamp with a painted globe of many colors, and the family Bible. That which interests me the most, however, is the wheezy old parlor organ which reposes sedately in one cor- ner of this tiny room. It has a mirror and several shelves, above the age-yellowed keys. On the rack is a hymn book still left open to the page of the hymn played at grand- father ' s funeral. It is a sad-looking room, for all its stiffness — a room which brings back memories to her who furnished it with a bride ' s enthusiasm and happiness. Ruth Boudreau, ' 32. THE FUNERAL ( A True Story) It was indeed a funeral — such a funeral, in fact, that the deceased was excavated and buried a second time. We four children — Charlie, Endy, Shrimp, and I — were just at that age when imagination is at its height. I had found a dead bird, and we had decided to give it an elaborate burial. The ceremony was to take place on the lawn at the right of my house. Our preparations were now completed. A chair had been placed on the lawn; in this we placed the casket, which we had lined with bright silk. Charlie had put the deceased, a little sparrow, in its coffin. (Don ' t tell anyone, but the truth is that Shrimp and I never would have let Charlie have that honor without some dispute, had we dared touch the dead bird ourselves.)

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GRIMALKIN That afternoon Grimalkin had strolled down the dusty road that led past the village cemetery. She knew that there among the gravestones, nestled in the tall yellow grass, was a swallow ' s nest. She remembered the exact spot whence the frightened mother swallow had darted on seeing her. Her paw had felt five warm eggs. Then she had an- ticipated a feast. Now, as she lay drowsily on the porch, switching her tail nervously, she glanced at her shadow. It had grown long and dim. Night, Grimalkin ' s time for action, was coming. Had you been a fly on the wall, you would have seen her glassy, yellowish-green eyes shine maliciously in the dim light. She roused herself, stretched, and went slinking down the road. Soon she reached the cemetery. After looking about guiltily, and seeing no one, she entered the gate. The cemetery was very still. Stealthy as they were. Grimalkin ' s steps rustled the dry grass and leaves at even intervals. When she was close to the swallow ' s nest, she saw the mother bird sleeping, unaware of lurking peril. She crouched and waited for one quivering moment. Then a sudden spring, a clutch of claws, a crushing bite, and little mother swallow was no more. Almost passionately Grimal- kin clawed and gnawed at the remains of the bird. In greedy gulps she devoured the five juicy babies. This done, she licked her lips, and, with a satisfied grin and a full stomach, she set out for home. Dreamily, slowly, she padded down the road. Thoughts of her feast obliterated everything else. She did not see the two dazzling lights speeding toward her. She did not hear the vibrating noises of the oncoming Ford ' s engine. Neither did the driver see the gray cat in the dark road. He was aware that he had gone over a bump — another bump in a country road. Grimalkin uttered one hideous cry of pain. The Ford rat- tled on its way. Then the night was stUl again. Early the next morning, I walked down the same coun- try road to get the mUk. There in the dust, with stains of dried-up blood mussing the gray fur of her head. Grimalkin lay limp and still — dead. Carol Lee, ' 31. Joan Foster, ' 30 HE WAS A FLYING FOOL Jerry Alden was known as the flying fool of the Forty- ud Squadron. It was back in 1918, when parachutes were unknown, but even the fact that when one ' s plane caught fire or was shot to pieces, Newton ' s law came into effect conclusively, failed to keep this human bird on liie ground. Jerry was famous for his foolhardy trick of diving into a flight of German Fokkers, knocking down two or three before the Teutons knew what it was all about, and then running off in his faster Spad in a very taunting fashion. Every other pilot in the squadron had tried to reason Jerry out of his recklessness, but all to no avail. He passed it off carelessly, saying, What do you fellows think I joined the service for? When my time comes, I ' ll be ready, but until then, why not make myself useful? And his idea of being useful was very agreeable to the com- manding officer. Jerry ' s average weekly total of enemy planes certainly helped to uphold the Forty-third ' s enviable reputation. One day, when the weather was too gusty for flying, a Fokker appeared over the flying field. It was met by a fusillade of machine-gun bullets and auto-aircraft shells, but the daring German swooped down unscathed over the airdrome and then zoomed quickly into the leaden sky. Behind him, a small white parachute fluttered to earth. Jerry was the first to reach the fallen ' chute. Upon exam- ination, it was found to contain a letter addressed to Lt. Jerry Alden. The missive was a challenge to fight an air duel on the next day at noontime. It was signed Capt. Frederic Hertzsheimer, who was one of the most famous German aces. Jerry laughed carelessly and nonchalantly lighted a cigarette. As if nothing had happened, he re- turned to the barracks and quietly turned in. The next morning, the commanding officer excused Jerry from his usual two-hour patrol. All the morning the fiying fool spent on his plane, examining, especially, the motor and the machine-gun mechanisms. He supervised the stowing of the cartridge belts and of the gasoline and oil. Just before noon, he calmly shook hands with the major, climbed into his Spad, and took off. Coming over No Man ' s Land , he circled warily, on the lookout for a trap. Soon he spied speeding toward him a

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We all gathered around the chair, with very long faces, ready to begin. The service consisted, as far as I can re- member, almost entirely of music — maybe you wouldn ' t call it that. Our quartet was accompanied by two combs, a thermometer, and a slat from our picket fence. (So that you may better understand, I will tell you that the slat from the fence served as a ' cello, and the thermometer had been considered a find, because it was so large and just fine for a violin, especially with the glass part (which we had taken off) as a bow.) You have all played on combs and know how melodious they are. To go on with the service. When they all signalled ready, I gave the pitch, do . It apparently didn ' t suit the other singers, for each one started at whatever pitch he ple ased. First we sang Good Morning to You, then America, followed by the Star-Spangled Banner ; then came many other songs — just as appropriate. Having finished the service, we proceeded to quarrel as to where and how the bird should be buried. Since I had found it, I had the privilege of having its grave in my yard. Shrimp lowered the box into the hole which Charlie had dug, and Endy covered it up. We decorated the grave, and then all went in to supper. As I said in the beginning, the funeral pleased us so much that, having nothing better to play the next day, we dug up the poor deceased and repeated our process of the previous day. After a week or so of this, my father in- terred the bird for the last time — we never knew where. Priscilla Eaton, ' 31. THE DETECTIVE STORY The detective story has found a place in the literature of the world. It is a distinct genre, and it has many well- defined characters, as has other fiction. Who has not heard of Sherlock Holmes? Or Arsene Lupin? Or Father Brown? Or Mr. Fortune? Or Dr. Thorndyke? A reader of detective yarns is in surprisingly good com- pany. Edison reads a detective thriller now and then to relax his mind. Theodore Roosevelt liked to read them. Steinmetz read them. College professors read them and, occasionally, write them. Willard Huntington Wright, art critic and writer, is an example. He has made quite a study of the detective story and has edited an anthology of the best, taken from all over the world. Now his sales are enormous: he is S. S. Van Dine, the author of the Green , the Can- ary , the Bishop , the Benson , and other Murder Cases . His books are well-written and usually have a cul- tural background. For some intellectually inclined persons, the detective story offers mental exercise like a puzzle or game, but more uncertain, as human nature enters in. Consciously or un- consciously, we try to solve the mystery ourselves. We are confronted with the same evidence as the super-sleuth and we attempt to piece together the reconstruction of the scene. And there is a certain satisfaction when we can place our finger figuratively on one character and say, That is the man! and, continuing, find on the last pages that we were right. The modern detective is a change from the hyper-super- ultra-sleuth who never left the armchair. We have more or less action and display of psychological pyrotechnics. And, of course, there is the dyed-in-the-wool fan . Orison S. Pratt, ' 30. A PIRATE SHIP The Crossbones lay on the silver water of the Pacific. The crescent moon hung from the fleecy clouds and shed its golden light on the calm water. The ship, an old master, had long cruised the sea. All was quiet aboard the old ves- sel till a shadow darted across the deck. It paced the deck impatiently, looking around now and then to see if all was well. It was the midnight watch. The pirate ran up the stout ladder to the crow ' s nest to spy. In an instant he returned and raced across the deck to give his report to the captain. A whUe later he returned with two other pirates and cleared the deck for action. A signal was given by the captain, and scores of other pirates swarmed the deck. They had knives in their teeth and guns in their belts. As they neared the merchant ves- sel, a brawny muscular hand dragged me out of my hiding place. Get up. You ' re late for school. Oh! What a dream! John Callahan, ' 33. THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND The First Hundred Thousand , by Ian Hay, describes in humorous fashion the development and growth of a raw Scottish regiment in Kitchener ' s First Army. Though the characters of the story are fictitious, the events are authentic. The book is primarily of a humorous tone, but here and there is a touch of pathos or solerrmity which makes it, in my estimation, one of the most likable and enjoyable books I have ever read. The story has no connected plot and is but a series of incidents and portrayals depicting the progress of a body of humble miners from a state of civilian slovenliness to that of militaristic cleanliness and discipline. He who has not read this book has missed something. Rather ! Lawrence Doore, ' 30. THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY By Gilbert Parker Gilbert Parker has introduced in his romance, The Seats of the Mighty , the very novel atmosphere of an his- torical background and a theme of love. Seldom does one see in modern fiction authors attempting to blend fact with romance. There are many reasons for our contemporary novelists ' avoidance of the historical setting, and foremost among these are two facts: first, they cannot ably substitute fictitious titles for names of repute; second, they be- come greatly involved in making a plot and a climax co- incide with facts which are so well known that, if general truths are disregarded, their works become subject to the harsh criticism of historians. But Mr. Parker, having se- cured the aid of prominent Canadian antiquarians, was able to produce successfully The Seats of the Mighty both as a romance and as a review of the English invasion of the French stronghold, Quebec. In reading this novel, I was reminded of Dic kens ' s A Tale of Two Cities because of the parallelism of the plot. In both stories one sees the heroine working vainly to rescue her lover from unjust imprisonment. At this point, however, the book under criticism differs from and sur- passes Mr. Dickens ' s work, for the escape of the imprisoned victim serves not only as the climax, but as a vital step towards the execution of the exciting anticlimax.