Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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ON LEARNING TO SKATE Winter, with all its cold weattier and out-door sports, has always been a period of great unhappiness to you, not because you can ' t skate, but because your parents are always after you to learn how. But this Winter things are going to be different — your mother has bought you a pair of skates which means that you simply must learn how. The eventful day dawns clear and cold; and, unluckily for you, it falls on Saturday — the day of house-cleaning. Mother constantly urges you to hurry with your work so that you can go and try the new skates. You, however, are in no hurry, and you ask several times every hour if there isn ' t something else to do, but mother says that she will do your work this morning so that you can get down to the pond early. You mumble something about not feeling very well, but mother is busy and doesn ' t hear you, so you trudge reluctantly upstairs to get your wraps on. This you do slowly, trying to think of some excuse that will keep you ai home. All of a sudden a faint light begins to glimmer in the Stygian darkness of your brain, and, after thinking a mo- ment, you dash out of the house and down to the pond — where you stand and watch the others all afternoon, secretly hoping that your mother will not go into your room. Then you come home and sneak upstairs, remove your wraps, and march trivunphantly into the dining-room, and sit down to dinner. You begin eating, not daring to look up and meet the inquiring glances of the family, and wait for the bombard- ment of questions that you feel sure the family will ask. It does. Well, dear, how did you get along? Oh— all right. Have a good time? Yeh — Pretty good. How do you like your skates? They ' re swell. Have many tumbles? Nope. (You wonder when this is going to end because you know you can ' t keep on fibbing much longer.) Going again tomorrow? Yeh. Then your mother pops a question that you can ' t duck. You ' ll have to excuse my seeming so dense, but will you please explain to me how you can go ice-skating when you leave your skates at home? You look -up blankly. She repeats her question and, again, you feel the eyes of the family upon you. Your eyes refuse to meet theirs, and you try to think of the excuse you had ready; but you can ' t, so you explain glibly, between blushes, something about forgetting to take your skates along. There is silence for a moment. Then father booms — Haw-Haw! and stifles the rest in his napkin; Junior yells Fraid-cat! ; but mother— mother maintains a stony silence, knowing that her expression will make a deeper and more lasting impression upon you than words. It does, and you rise hurriedly from the table and make for your room, but not before your mother promises you that you will go right back to the pond tonight and get used to those skates. And, after a time, you do. At last you are down at the pond watching the skaters skim gracefully over the ice. It looks easy. So you stand upon your feet and try to skim gracefully, but you succeed only in wobbling back and forth. You try to stop yourself from falling, and only fall harder with the snickers and laughing remarks of the on-lookers buzzing in your ear. You can feel your face going scarlet, and you ' re glad it ' s dark so that your blushes can ' t be seen. You spend most of the evening in concentrated squirming, and you ' re so hot that you wonder vaguely why the ice doesn ' t melt under you. Suddenly you find yourself skimming, not very grace- fully, but skimming, and you congratulate yourself on your ability to skate so soon — and so well! People who skate by you see a smug, oh-see-how-well-I-can-skate grin on your face and grin sympathetically in return. After a while you become conscious of shouting behind you and you are so confident of your ability to keep your feet that you turn your head (you haven ' t learned to turn on skates yet) to learn what the excitement is about. They all seem to be shouting at you! Now, why should they do that? You are a good skater now; they have nothing to worry about. You wave your arm to show them that you are all right and then turn your head back again to get your bearings. You see a great, gaping hole full of cold, black water coming up to meet you! Splash ! ! Burr— It ' s Cold ! ! And as you are pulled out of the icy depth by many helping hands, you say to yourself that this will teach mother not to force you to do anything that you ' re not ready to do yet. Doris McClintock, ' 32. THE WIND WOMAN The Wind Woman whistled softly through the trees of the little woodland on the edge of The Lake of Laughing Waters as she twisted in and out among the trees. Some of these had been the lady ' s friends for years and years, but for others it was her first visit. Nevertheless, old or young, each in turn was glad to receive the warm, sweet, breath of Mother Wind. Its effect was like wine for, as she passed, they immediately spruced up and looked at the world with renewed courage. The reason was that she had whis- pered to them that she would help them to sprout graceful new limbs and dress them in the most enchanting leaf dresses that her style bag contained. From the woodland to the cave she blew, waking up hungry bears from theii ' long sleep. Everywhere she received a royal welcome from the woodland folk. Then came her last people to visit, the lapping, laughing waters of the lake. Up they rolled to meet her, great at first, but then growing smaller. Still again they returned to the lake to gain force to reach her first. Softly she stepped over the waves, patting each on the head, smiling at some, kissing her favorites, and giving advice to all. Then on she wandered to make new friends in other lands, but as the little waves washed back and forth, they chanted joyfully, Spring has come, the Wind Woman has been our guest. Spring has come. Marjorie Moore, ' 33.

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F. Haiaaay GIANTS IN THE EARTH By O. E. Rolvaag: For months now they had been traveling ever westward to the Sunset Land. Many weeks ago when they had left Norway they were happy, but now they were disheartened by their struggle to conquer the seemingly never-ending distance between them and their destination. The caravan consisted of Per Hansa, a hardy Norwegian searching for a home and happiness in America; Beret, his wife; their three children, Ole, Store-Hans, and And-Ongen; Rosie, the cow; a yoke of oxen; and a dilapidated wagon. They had started with three other wagons, but because of an accident they were delayed and had to resume the journey alone. After days of anxiety they finally reached the place where the others had settled. Then began the hard work — the building of sod huts, the plowing, the seeding, the trips after wood, and innumer- able other things. These days Per Hansa abounded in good spirits. His dream was a reality at last. He was with his friends; Hans Olsa and his wife, Syvert Tonseten and his wife, and the two Solum boys, Henry and Sam. Beret, however, did not share her husband ' s joy. The vastness of the plains overwhelmed her; lack of civilization oppressed her; the black nights frightened her. Oh, how could any- thing exist in such a place ! Yet life did exist and even progressed in this small settlement. More people came and settled here. They had to endure great hardships: devastating clouds of locusts, terrible snowstorms, and sickness. Beret suffered the most. She could not adapt herself to her new surround- ings. She was homesick and afraid. She saw Christianity flee from the settlement; she saw the men turn into beasts; she saw nothing but horrible sights everywhere. Gradually she began to lose her senses. She was saved from going mad by the opportune arrival of a minister who reconciled her with God. From then on she was very pious, and she resigned herself to such a life as the Lord destined she should lead. One winter night Hans Olsa contracted a severe cold. Death was approaching, and Hans wanted a minister. Per Hansa, uncertain whether he should ever return, set out in the worst sort of weather in search of one. Many months later after Hans Olsa had died. Per Hansa ' s body was found in the snow — just another block in the foundation of America. As briefly as possible I have outlined the story of Giants in the Earth. No resume, however, could convey an ade- quate idea of how gripping this novel is. This book is not essentially one of action, but more one of psychology. O. E. Rolvaag, the author, is not concerned with the romance of pioneering; he wishes to show what it costs in human life. There are, however, many incidents which provide action and humor. Beret is the main character in the tale. Her homesickness is the dominating motive in the story. Giants in the Earth contains two books, the first of which ends with the birth of Beret ' s fourth child. As Beret was moribund, her recovery placed the others in a joyful mood. Although the first book has a happy ending, a melancholy atmosphere pervades, supplied for the most part by Beret. The second book is a continuance of the first. Rolvaag brings religion into Book Two by the introduction of a minister. Beret ' s morbidness is greatly cleared by the minister. This book concludes with its inevitable tragedy. Rolvaag makes effective use of onomatopoeia in this story. You can almost hear the grass go tish-ah, tish-ah, and the wheels of the wagon squeak to one another. He is also clever in constructing vivid descriptions. Giants in the Earth will play with your emotions. At times you will have a sizeable lump in your throat, and at other times you will be laughing. Suddenly, you will find yourself saying, Punch him, Hans. Then, all at once, you will be sad again and full of pity for Beret. When you have finished the book, you will know the grim realities of the founding of America, and you will have a new insight into pioneer life. Yes, indeed, you should read Rolvaag ' s Giants in the Earth. Frank A. Whitney, P. G.

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SEA FEVER I sat on the rocky promontory, my eyes not on my line like those of a good deep-sea fisherman, but on the distant horizon where, faintly etched against the far blueness, a racing yacht was in its beauty the excuse for its creation. The waves swirled around my lonely stronghold, until I re- minded myself of many heroines of the ancient Greek myths — chained, or cast away on some deserted rock, in the midst of the raging deep. But suddenly my thoughts left that field, as a fresh breeze from the sea sent the white caps higher, and brought a stronger tang of the salt to my eagerly sniffing nose. My Grecian maidens vanished, and I thought of that sturdy old salt, my paternal grandfather, and realized how he must have felt when he declared that he hoped only that God would let him die on his ship, and that his body, wrapped in tarpaulin, might be consigned to the ocean on which he had lived. I tried to skip over the remembrance of the fact that he had died prosaically enough in bed of heart failure, and to remember only the glowing, exciting life he had lived, sailing the seven seas, seeing everything there was to be seen, buying curios in different ports to bring home to his family, and, above all, staying on the sea the year around. In some previous existence, I wondered if I might not have been one of the Northmen, making my ship my home during the warm months, raiding the coasts of England, France, Spain, even Italy, bringing back to my northern home the spoils of the Southland, about which to spin many a saga when the winter imprisoned me there. Or perhaps an old seaman, tried and true, in the service of Magellan, Drake, Da Gama, or any of the explorers, accompanying them on their distant journeyings to unknown ports and places. Or, in later times, the master of a lively Yankee clipper-ship when they reigned the seas, racing from ocean to ocean, enduring the wrath of the angry sea; if conquer- ing, to ride triumphantly home; if conquered, to rest in quiet content in Davey Jones ' s locker. No matter when I lived, no matter from what clime I came, still I must have been near the sea. And some day, perhaps some very far day, I shall return to my sea again, where the wind blows salt, and the stars shine clear, and I shall find happiness once more. Madeline Greer, ' 31. A POSTER Before him stretched a broad empty sheet of white. Quickly he bounds this limitless expanse with shaky lines along the sides. He scratches his head contemplatively, and then pulls a disfigured sheet of paper — through the thumb prints and smooches it seems to be a poster cartoon — from a folio beside him. Hesitatingly he makes some faint lines, erases them, almost repeats them, but thinks better of it, and finally, after some pencil chewing, arrays a queer misshapen figure before him. Its eyes have an unnatural stare which no amount of revision seems to remedy, and the rest of the body is in harmony. By dint of much head tilting, neck craning, and eye squinting, his figure assumes a more rational appearance. Some last erasures and the figure seems complete, so the artist turns reluctantly to the crude lettering beneath. For ten minutes he bends to his task, rubbing, scrubbing, replacing, and erasing, his mouth working curiously, and his brow wrinkled with exasperation. With a satisfied grimt he finally relaxes and tilts back his chair. Yes, fairly good if — oh, for heaven ' s sake — spelled wrong! He grasps the board, and for a moment he seems about to break it over his knees; but he relents, replaces the board, and with a resigned air obliterates the offending line and replaces it corrected. At last, with a swirl of triumph — or disgust — he leaves his board and gathers together an alarming array of weird- ly daubed, but brilliantly colored, paint jars. One arm embracing these latter, his mouth clamped shut on some brushes, and the other hand balancing an overfull water dish, he makes his way back to his desk. Arranging the prints before him, paper towels to one side, and water dish at his elbow — placed conveniently, alas, for shoving onto the fioor — he commences painting. Considering his frame of mind and his experience in the particular medium, he attains creditable results. The lettering turns out to be weak-kneed and these graceful flourishes seem oddly still and awkward. Undaunted he attacks the figure, we can pass over the club foot and the variance in leg size, but oh, how ruddy the face is compared to the deathly pallor of the hands! The artist, however, in spite of his air of profes- sional dissatisfaction, receives some inward satisfaction. The final touch is a border to pull it together — unfor- tunately the border serves its purpose as a millstone for dr owning kittens — to excess, but the artist is above such minor defects. Stepping back with a wonderful flourish, he strikes an attitude — his masterpiece. Clarence Doore, ' 31. MOBY DICK By Herman Melville Here is a story for excitement-seekers! Moby Dick is a tale of the high seas and of the stirring adventures and hardships of the whales. In a manner that bespeaks of intimacy with that industry, Herman Melville sets forth the story of those courageous men who wrenched their living from death ' s hands. We read amazing descriptions of the methods employed in catching the whales; and the many hazards which accompany such work are sometimes preposterous in their fearfulness. Melville draws splendid pictures of the typical whaleman, lean, leathery skinned from being continually buffeted by wind and salt-spray, and with a keen eye and a mind ever on the alert. The small formalities on board ship, and the often childlike supersti- tions of the sailors give an intimate touch to the tale, and, as in every whaling story, the spii ' it whales, of whom amazing things are told, lend mystery to the narrative. Moby Dick, one of those half-mythical whales, was a giant, white, malformed animal, the dread of every honest whaleman. This colossal whale had been many times sought for, and terrible was the havoc he wrought among those who dared to combat him. In a sea battle he tore off the leg of the dauntless Captain Ahab, whose mind from that moment on, was obsessed with the desire of revenge. The story of how, over half the Pacific, he pursued Moby Dick and of how at last he met his just fate at the hand of the whale, as punishment for the soul-consuming desire for revenge that swallowed all the good in the terrible old man, is a story that will thrill you to the last page. Elizabeth Humphrey, ' 33.