Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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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.

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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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THIS BEIN ' A SHERIFF This dern depresshion is liurtin ' everybody. Why, we ain ' t strung a guy up in Badger Crick since the Civil War, and now you cain ' t even pull in a couple of dogs for des- turbin ' the peace. I guess that ' s the cause of this whole dern catychism. You see, ' Windy ' Blair, that tall, blonde, good-for-what deputy of mine got to readin ' some high class literature on Skiing in the Alps when he didn ' t have nothin ' to do but hook his spurs on my oak desk and smoke my La Politas. I didn ' t give a continental what Windy read, but I did like my cigars. But then, you ' ve got to give a deputy somethin ' to make him work while you ' re sleepin ' . Wal, everythin ' was goin ' like a sober Injun, when ' Bill ' White comes into town with the dirty news that a wldder is squattin ' on Colonel Cook ' s land. The Colonel is a big noise back East who owns half of Montana, and don ' t allow no one to squat on it. So I aims me and Windy will go out and take a look at the widder. But Windy, who is all blowed up on this skiing idea, says why don ' t we get some skis (there bein ' quite a bit of snow on the ground) and have a time. Wal, the pictures in his magazines don ' t look half bad, so we decides we ' ll take a fall out of it. Windy sends away for some of these skis. The skis finally come, and the next day we sets out with our packs, for its 30 miles to where the widder ' s set up housekeepin ' . I ain ' t quite got the knack of pushin ' those funnies along with those poles with little wheels on ' em, but I manage to keep up with Windy. Before long we come to the hills. Windy says, accordin ' to his book, you should go up sideways, but I ain ' t no crab, and so I starts up low first. It ain ' t long before I find Windy ' s right. He ' s up the hill and I ' m about a quarter way up for the sixth time. When I finally reach the top of that mountain. Windy points to a nice slope that ain ' t quite straight up and down and says, Here ' s where the fun begins. You go first, Mach. So I takes ofl, and in about three-fifths of a second I ' m doin ' 60 per, but I can ' t keep those Scandinavian slipping planks parallel, and before I knows it, my left leg is where my right ought to be and I do a tailspin. I come down making a perfect 16-point landing, scraping hide off all of em. If I looked anything like Windy looked, I must ' ve looked like a octopus wavin ' all his legs at once. And let me tell you, it ain ' t easy gettin ' out of four feet of snow when you ' ve got a colt stickin ' in your ribs on one side, a fry pan on the other, your legs up where your arms ought to be, and your arms, God knows where. Wal, by night we are all of five miles from town, and I know now we could have got along a lot faster on snow- shoes goin ' backwards. After about a week, we finds our- selves in front of the widder ' s shack. I bites me off a chew, puts on my officious look, and limps up the door. When I knocks, the meanest, biggest lookin ' squaw I ever surveyed poles her head out, and I begins: ' Madam, I ' m sheriff of Badger County and — . ' ' Well, what do I care who you are? Scat! ' she piped. ' But madam, you ' re trespassin ' — ' ' Git! she cries, and for emphasis, she shoves a double barreled cannon in my pan. I knows red when I sees it, and it would have took me just about two seconds to get out of gun range if it hadn ' t been for those Norwegian sleigh runners. As it was, I took three spills in the first fifty yards. So when I gets back to Windy I can ' t even cuss; I ' ve used ' em all up. I figgers the Colonel won ' t mind if just one widder is squattin ' on his land, but if he does, he can kick her off hisself. We spend the rest of the week hiking In the snow. We makes a sleigh out of our skis and puts our packs on it. When we gets back to my office, we sleep for another week. Windy still creaks when he moves, and I feel as though I ' d been through a threshin ' machine. I ' ve got blisters on my pedals as big as four-bit pieces, and what shows of me under the adhesive plaster is black and blue. But I ' ll tell you one thing: If Windy ever brings up another one of his dernfangled winter sports ideas, he can go some place where they don ' t have snow. ' Evan Fail-banks, ' 31. MY FIRST AIRPLANE RIDE One of my most vivid, but not altogether pleasant, mem- ories of last summer is my airplane flight across the English Channel. Our party of three left London one misty, moisty morning and drove out to Craydon, the airport. There we, and our baggage, were carefully weighed and checked in a large, airy building on the edge of the field. Then we were escorted to where a large trimotored biplane waited with engines roaring. We climbed aboard, stowed our bags, and seated ourselves comfortably in deep wicker chairs. Twelve other passengers arrived and settled them- selves, and promptly at nine o ' clock the great plane took off. Slowly we bumped across the field, gradually gathering speed, and suddenly the bumping ceased ; we were off ! After circling once around the airport we sped away into the clouds. Then was the time when, according to all the folders, we should have been soaring smoothly through the blue sky, a white-coated steward in attendance, gazing at the white-capped waters of the Channel, or reading the latest magazines. How different was our fate! For some reason there was no steward aboard that trip, the man probably knew what was coming; also, owing to the thick, impenetra- ble banks of clouds, the Channel, white-capped or not, was invisible. The fine mist in which we had started immedi- ately turned to pouring rain, which dashed against the win- dows with terrific force, and a strong wind howled through the fusilage. The roaring of the motor made conversation impossible, and the altitude made the cabin exceedingly cold. The fierce winds tossed the craft, which had seemed so large on the ground, about like a leaf; and the resulting motions were more alarming than those of any ship. At last at about quarter of twelve, the plane nosed down and hopefully we viewed an open field through a break in the clouds. The plane landed in a veritable sea of mud and came to halt in three inches of waters. Nevertheless, we thankfully prepared to alight when, alas! an official appeared and declared that we were in Belgium, where five lucky souls were to get out, not Ger- many, our destination. Disgusted, we sank back and waited, tired and shivering, for an hour, while the pilot waited for a more favorable weather report. At last, at quarter to one, we again took off and headed for Cologne, Germany. By this time the rain had practically stopped and the wind had gone down a little so those who were not too sick could catch glimpses of the country beneath, broad fields, winding canals, and tall trees swaying wildly in the wings. Final-