Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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in him and obeyed him as little children might have. One of the first to greet him was his younger brother, Leo, who was eighteen. Leo was wharf manager and took charge of drying the flsh, while his giant of a brother sailed forth with his hardy crew to catch the fish. Eric boarded the ship amid the acclaim and greeting of his shipmates and made ready to cast off. A goodly group of villagers had gathered on the shore, for the parting of a ship was always an event in their monotonous and stagnant life. When all was ready, Eric sent Leo scurrying down the plank with a hearty brotherly slap saying, Dry those fish till the bones crack, ' and be good to Mother. And then, with the cheers and farewells of the towns- people shattering the quiet stillness of the day, the anchor was hoisted and the sails set; and the Stromo pointed her nose to meet the advance of that wild expanse of heaving, restless ocean. II Two days later the Stromo turned her bow homeward with a large catch in her hold. The sun was slowly de- scending in the west when suddenly a peculiar cloud forma- tion manifested itself and approached rapidly. Then, with a low ever increasing grumble, it came! Rain and wind. Driving sheets of water slashed and tore about the staunch boat. The rollers increased to seemingly mountainous proportions, with wickedly frothing crests that came crashing down upon Eric and his crew, fighting to keep the Stromo afloat. The wind increased and drove the salt spray and rain, almost hail, in blinding, suffocating blast so merciless and cruel that no living creature could withstand it. Above the roar of the storm came a more sinister grumble. Eric was at a loss to account for this new note until a deep-seated fear struck him, and he forced his head above the deck to look. Directly ahead, not more than three hundred yards away, towered a blacker shape against the blackness of the night. Atop this precipitous cliff twinkled a faint light. Even as he looked, a towering column of phosphorescent brine crashed violently against the precipice, and its luminous foam was seen to mount for over one him- dred and fifty feet up the sheer front. Eric ' s fear was confirmed. This was Myggenaes Head, the westmost point of the Islands. Well Eric knew that nothing could with- stand the irresistible force of these jaws of death. And it seemed inevitable that Stromo — the storm defier — was to go down in defeat in the hands of this challenger, nature ' s master destroyer. Reduced to a leaking hull, the Stromo plunged and wallowed straight towards Myggenae, propelled by a scream- ing wind that drove blinding clouds of sleet across the rolling deck and whipped and lashed at the waves until it transformed them into frothing monsters, heartless and cruel. Helpless and fascinated, Eric stood and watched. Nothing he could do now would save them. Certain destruction was theirs. He thought of his mother, of their last talk, of her hopes for him only to have it end this way. As he stood there, bare-headed, his lips moved in a short and silent prayer: God, I know Thy way is best . . . O God, strengthen my dear mother to bear this added sorrow . . . give her courage ... I am safe; it is she that must suffer ... Then came that last mountainous crest. Far below he saw the waters sucking away from the base of the cliff. Two hundred feet above blinked the Myggenae ' s light, its keeper peacefully unaware of the awful pending tragedy. Down, down, they raced straight for that rocky bottom with tons of water above. Involuntarily Eric leaped into the descending waters. The moment after, the Stromo struck. A momentary glimpse showed Eric the splintering disinte- gration and the bodies of his fellow seamen crushed to death under that mighty avalanche of water. Then he himself was engulfed in the smothering maelstrom. He felt himself being carried up and up and up on its crest. It finally dropped him viciously on the steep and ragged slope that led to the light house. Ill As quickly as the storm had started it ceased, and the clouds parted and cleared. It was early morning, and a late moon shone hazily through the rifted scuds. The lighthouse keeper peered out upon the subsiding waters of the fickle Atlantic, now glittering in the clear, pure light of the moon. With a start he noticed Eric ' s body wedged In the rocks not more than thirty feet down the cliff. Hastily he went to investigate. He let himself slowly and care- fully down the cliff by means of a long rope securely fastened at the lighthouse end. Despite the disfiguration of the features, the keeper recognized Eric ' s apparently life- less body — and knew immediately what had happened. God, how can it be? he murmured in an agonized voice. Eric was not dead, however; he still breathed spasmod- ically. The keeper, Carl by name, fastened the rope around Eric ' s body; then retraced his steps to the lighthouse, assisted by the rope. When secure footing was reached, he slowly and carefully drew Eric to the lighthouse, into which he carried him and administered first aid as best he could. Then, leaving Eric in his vnfe ' s care, he set out for Thorshaon. IV When the day was well advanced, Carl returned, accom- panied by Eric ' s mother and brother and seemingly half of the townspeople, including the doctor. Leo, his mother, and the doctor were admitted to the room where lay Eric, tossing and muttering. Oh, Eric, ' cried his mother, chokingly, My boy, my boy. At the sound of her voice Eric stopped muttering and opened his eyes. For a moment he seemed possessed of all consciousness. Mother . . . he whispered, and again, Mother ... Yes, Eric, it ' s Mother, she sobbed. The storm was bad. Mother, it got us — it got me too. Mother. I won ' t need an education now; Leo can go, though. He must go ... as a dying wish I ask him to go. But Leo, he said, turning to his pale-faced brother, trying hard to conceal his emotions, Never try to defy Natm e. You can ' t do it. Then turning back to his mother, Good- by. Mother ... With an anguished cry his mother threw herself on her knees by his bed and poured out her soul in tears of heart- bioken grief. Eric Jensen now stands as a statue, a monument of courage and strength, to all his ardent admirers. He was indeed a martyr, passing in his youth and vigor for the sake of the lonely, treacherous Islands where he was born, and where his heart ever dwelt. Lloyd N. Owen, ' 30.

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STROMO Abruptly, from the wild expanse of restless wind-torn waves, rise the shear basalt cliffs of the isolated group of Faeroe Islands. A wilder, more desolate scene is unimag- inable. The Faeroes ' highest cliffs, some towering majes- tically almost two thousand feet above the sea, face the advance of the waves from the west, and here daily is enacted one of the most violent and awesome dramas of nature. Against these black barriers the Atlantic sends her mighty combers to break with explosive force and to burst into the most remarkable clouds of foam and surf to be found in the world. This ceaseless, relentless assault of the breakers on the braced shoulders of rock is slowly dissolving them into the ruthless ocean. On such barren islands, one would hardly expect to find any inhabitants. Yet, clustered in partially sheltered hollows and around the few and poor harbors are some three thousand primitively constructed dwellings of old Viking origin. Within the walls of these structures over twenty thousand people cling to the five hundred and forty square miles of unfertile, almost tree-less, storm-rocked Faeroes and eke out a meagre living from fishing, cattle- raising, and bird-catching. The people, like their crude and staunch homes, are of Viking and Danish descent, com- ing from that bold, sea-faring stock that produced the adventurous Lief Ericson. Their appearance and person- ality are those of a strong forebear ing race; their faces without exception are lean and tan, drawn with hard firm lines set from continued exposure, hardships, and unexpect- ed death in their unending struggle with nature. Eric Jensen, a true son of the Islands, walked down the main street of t he capital city, Tliorshaon, situated on Stromo, the largest of the Islands. The natives were proud of their kinsman, Eric, for, although he was but a little over twenty, he owned and commanded a fishing vessel and maintained the most prosperous fishing industry yet estab- lished in the Islands. Eric was well over six feet tall, very erect, broad-shouldered and massively proportioned — a very tower of strength and endurance. His eyes, set deep and far apart in a square firm face, were startlingly blue. His hair was light flaxen browTi and inclined to curl. His appearance was that of an honest and intelligent man — a leader of men. Today, however, the erect head was bent; the broad shoulders drooped slightly; the flashing eyes were dull and dreamy. Eric was thinking, rather debating within that intelligent mind of his. A long and earnest talk with his widowed mother was directly responsible for this unusual pensiveness. Eric, said she, as she reiterated what she had tried to impress upon him before, You are simply wasting your life here in these lonely islands. You are different from us; you are intelligent enough to make a name for yourself in the world if only you would go to Denmark or Germany and get an education. You have money enough now, and how could you spend it more profitably? What good does it do you here? There is absolutely no future for you; you can go no farther than you ' ve gone. You know these islands are treacherous and dangerous. And you know what happened to your dear father and Uncle Carl ... There she stopped. Eric remained silent for a long moment, head bent. His father and uncle had met their death whUe bird-catch- ing over the cliffs off Store-Dimon. Their suspension rope had frayed through and dropped them six hundred feet to the frothing waves below. At the time Eric was twelve years old. Finally Eric rose, slowly. Mother, I know you ' re right, but I hate to leave these islands. Somehow I love them with all theii- loneliness and treachery. I love them as you do Mother, just like all the other islanders. Give me time to decide. I don ' t know what to say now. I must go, for my ship is waiting to start. I can ' t make my mind up yet. We shall retm-n in three days, and I will give you my answer then. Do what you think is best, Eric, she counselled in the parting embrace. You have made good here, and I ' m sure you could in the educated world. Goodby. This was the problem that Eric was turning over in his mind as he made his way along the narrow street he loved so well, toward the pier where his ship lay waiting. The name of this ship like that of the Island was Stromo, which means storm defier. Truly the Stromo was a staunch and worthy ship. It had battled many a furious storm without serious mishap and deserved its fitting name. Eric ' s eyes brightened, and his heart quickened at the trim sturdy lines of his own boat, one of the finest the Islands could boast. The men who had been lounging aboard the craft came to attention as their captain approached. Although most of these men were older than Eric, they had supreme faith

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FISHERMAN ' S PLUCK Or Another Fish Story Calico, a whiskery old tiger cat, sat on the sun-warmed wooden wharf, licking his paws and watching a very still, small pickerel, as I related the story of the great fight to my friend the Doctor. I lived, in the summer, on the shore of a quite small, but very deep, pond in a sleepy rustic village in New Hamp- shire. This pond had come to be the home of some very savage pickerel, of which a king had arisen in the form of a scarred old giant. I had seen him several times myself, but no amount of baiting and casting would induce him to swallow the hook, for he was a Solomon among those deni- zens of the deep. One early summer day, as I was opening up the cottage for the season, a lean, young cat insisted on entering the house. He stayed and became a permanent fixture at the place, and proved that he was worth his salt by sitting on the wharf or in the boat and catching small fish for his meals. I kept him and he grew bigger and bolder in his fishing, as he gradually caught bigger fish, of which the pickerel is the most savage of the fresh water variety. One day, I was idly sitting in the rowboat, catching some small yellow perch, to be used as pickerel bait, when my attention was attracted by friend cat, who had been sitting in the stem, and had hooked one of his paws into King Pickerel, the Monarch of all he swims in. In trying to imhook his claws from this monster he was pulled into the water. The cat regretting this rash attack, wished to withdraw from the contest; but, in trying to make his get- away, he was pulled repeatedly under water; he, in turn, raked the sides of the enraged pickerel with frantic claws. By this time I had scooped up the struggling pair with my net, and hauled them into the boat. The cat had won by a knockout with an uppercut to the gill, and also had, that night, the infinite satisfaction of devouring his worthy op- ponent for his supper. He has since wisely concluded to leave that species of fish alone. Leo Ryan, ' 32. IS A COLLEGE EDUCATION NECESSARY? Is a college education necessary? This is a question which confronts all high school students and their parents. It is a question which twenty-five years ago could have been answered negatively without much discussion. Today, how- ever, it is different. More people are attending college now than ever before and positions in the business world are becoming scarcer and scarcer because of the development of machinery. Many things can be said on both sides of this question. It has been argued by successful men that a college educa- tion is not necessary, therefore not advisable. Such men claim that the college man upon graduating expects imme- diately a soft collar job, and will take nothing else; where- as the high school graduate is willing to take practically anything and is anxious to succeed. Other men claim that the college graduate is over-confident and therefore does not apply himself sufficiently. Still others say that colleges teach very little which is of practical use. The majority of those who feel that a college education is not advisable are men who never went to college, and therefore in the minds of some there is a little jealousy back of their reason- ing. Opposing these men are those who think a college education not only advisable, but necessary. They feel that college fits a boy for life. It gives him associations with other men which in business are necessary. He meets people with different ideas from his own, and he is alone in his decision as to whether he will make or break himself. It is true that some of the courses taught in a college are of little value to the business man; however, these courses teach him how to apply himself adequately which in itself is a great accomplishment. In answering this question of whether it is necessary to have a college education or not, common opinion seems to lean towards the negative side, but it does deem it advisable to attend a college for at least one year if possible. Mark Wheeler, ' 31. A SOLILOQUY BY GRANDMA ' S CLOCK What a hustle! Such a bustle! Today is Grandma ' s eightieth birthday and everyone is preparing for the family party, which is to take place at four o ' clock this afternoon. Grandma has just dropped wearily into her rocking chair at my side for her afternoon nap, and now I can talk to her of former days. It seems such a short time ago that I boomed the happy hour when you were born. How well I remember the creaking of the doctor ' s buggy and the stamping of the horse ' s feet outside the door! Mistress Jane rushed up and down the stairs all day long and did not once glance into my face. During all your school days, I remember how proud I was that you depended on me so as not to be late. Some- times the parties and good times kept you out too long, but I never once betrayed you. Grandma, do you remember the first night Richard came to call? He behaved very decorously until Mistress Jane went to bed, and then — I tried not to look; I covered my face with my hands! At last I boomed the fatal eleven strokes, and blushed when he said good night. Then the wedding day arrived. By craning my neck, v hen no one was looking, I could just see all the beautiful flowers and a huge silver bell in the living-room. The house was filled with chattering guests and when I sounded my loudest and best eight strokes, a hush fell on the group, and everyone peered into my face. I remember how I beamed and secretly thanked Mistress Jane for washing my face that morning. My attention was attracted to the top of the stairs and then I gasped in amazement, for there you were, dressed m pure an d shimmering satin. How beautiful you looked! You slowly descended the stairs and, when you reached my side, you smiled and I whispered a wish for your hap- piness. How proud I was of you! Every year brought much of joy and sorrow; the time that Master Richard died was the saddest of them all. Boom ! Boom ! Boom ! Wake up, Grandma, and get ready for your guests. May this birthday be a joyous one and all the years to come filled with health and happiness. Eleanor Glover, 32.