Weymouth High School - Campus / Reflector Yearbook (Weymouth, MA)

Page 13 text:

Burglars — And Burglars A lone white beam shot round the dust-cov- ered room. The figure outside paused by the open window and looked in. If anybody was foolish enough to leave a window open all night, James Harrison Lee was not the person to ig- nore it. Nothing stirred inside. Climbing in, Jimmy dropped lightly to the floor, and began a cautious inspection of the sheet-covered furni- ture. J. Mortimer Swank had closed his palatial residence for the summer. Nevertheless, there was bound to be something of value left behind — hence the midnight marauder. Jimmy kept up his prowling. Unobserved by him, another trim figure was hidden from view behind a luxurious drapery at one end of the room. This secreted person followed every move of the burglar, until at last Mr. Lee was ready to leave. He stood by the window a minute, rest- ing the heavily loaded sack on the floor, when suddenly the lights flashed on and a cool voice said, Put up your hands! Dismayed, Jimmy did as he was told. Turn- ing, he stared uncomfortably at his captor, stand- ing awkwardly, first on one foot, then on the other. Phwat ' s going on here? demanded an un- mistakably Irish voice from the window, as the copper on the beat made his entrance. This-er-gentleman paid me an unexpected midnight visit, explained the man with the gun. Will you please take charge, officer? Er-you can leave the bag where it is. Yessir, replied O ' Reilly, respectfully. Will you be down in the morning to prefer charges, sir? The man barely stifled an affected yawn. Er- I hardly think so. This will be quite a feather in your cap, sergeant, capturing this villainous chap as he was escaping with the loot, won ' t it? Oi understand, sor, O ' Reilly winked. But I ' m not a sergeant yet, sor. Really? What a stupid lot of officials we have at headquarters. I ' ll speak to the Com- missioner in the morning. Quite so, sor. Good night, sor. Good night, serg-er-officer. O ' Reilly departed with his prisoner. Alas, I fear it w ill be a long time before Officer O ' Reilly will sit at a sergeant ' s desk. The nimble Jimmy managed to escape from the clutches of this guardian of the law before they reached the station. Vowing vengeance on the smooth-talking individual who had him arrested, he fled straight to the Swank mansion. After loitering about for half an hour, he gathered up his courage and approached his former means of entrance. What ' s this? The window is still open. Jimmy exulted, and then suddenly fell back in astonishment and fear. A black figure appeared in the window and dropped to the ground out- side. Picking up a clumsy sack, this person walked briskly to the end of the lane, where he turned. Back to Jimmy drifted a familiar voice. That was easy! Better luck next time, partner! Jimmy gasped and sat down weakly. Sergeant Connors sent the following telegram to J. Mortimer Swank the next day. Your son apprehended burglar in house. Man escaped. Shall we continue search? J. Mortimer Swank sent the following tele- gram to Sergeant Connors the same day: I have no son. Both men were crooks. Start search immediately. Russell Dexheimer Talk about co-operation ! When Dell was in the jeweller ' s shop to get his watch he asked the jeweller how he got the correct time. Oh, said the jeweller, I set my clock by the sunset gun at the fort. A few days later, Bill was down at the fort looking it over and asked how they checked up on their watches so as to shoot off the sunset gun on time. Why, they said, we check our watches every day by the clock in the jeweller ' s win- dow. Page Eleven

Page 12 text:

Tke Dude In a small Western town in the Deadwood Hills, a group of dry and dusty cowboys had gathered from the surrounding ranches to quench their thirst and play a few games of poker. It was the first of the month and most of them had their month ' s pay to squander as they saw fit. Here she comes, boys, yelled some one, and the local stage coach and its six horses came to a skidd ing stop. Two strangers jumped out. One, a drummer of the usual type known to Western towns, was given but a single glance. The other, a tall man, evidently of English an- cestry, was the cause of much talk. Dude! says Bill Johnson of Cross V to his pal Dick Jones. Yep, says Dick, look at those spats and the hunk of glass in his eye. I ' ll bet his mother doesn ' t know he ' s out. These and other comments were heard as the two strangers went into the hotel and regis- tered, the Dude giving his name as Algernon Forthergill of London. After asking for a room with a bawth, which caused several loud guf- faws from the cowboys, Algernon and his friend, the drummer, strolled into the barroom. After a few drinks the Dude began to boast. I can ride just as well as any cowboy, and I won ' t bar Buckskin Sam. Now Buckskin Sam was a famous bronco buster and rodeo rider and there was no man in the West who did not envy him. Bill Johnson was dying for some fun, and a little easy money was never turned aside by any of the boys. Say, feller! You think you can ride. I got a little bronco I ' ll bet two to one yer can ' t stay on, and I ' ll ' low yer ter pull leather. The drummer backed the Dude, and soon all the boys had their month ' s pay on Bill Johnson ' s broncho. A wild-eyed pinto who had never felt the cinch of a saddle was brought out in front, and the Dude looked calmly on, in fact some thought too calmly. Algernon strolled to a sidewalk chair, care- fully laid down his cane and monocle, and then rolled up his London tweeds. Whoa, boy! he said as he grasped the reins, and like a flash he vaulted on the startled bron- cho ' s back. The pinto reared and kicked. His fore feet pawed the air, but Algernon stayed on. Soon a crack was heard in the vicinity of the saddle cinch. He ' s done fer now, yelled Bill, but when the dust lifted, he saw the Dude safely astride his bare-back broncho. Well, the Dude and his friend collected, and pulled out on the stage that evening. The cow- boys, still dry and much disgusted, went to Hank ' s liverv stable for their horses. Who were them blokes? some one asked. Old Hank laughed and said, What ' s the matter, boys? Done yer up? That Dude was Buckskin Sam. Ruth Clifford ' 34 School Life Education has been defined as the process by means of which the individual acquires experi- ence that will function and render more efficient his future actions. So often we go to high school or college with one definite aim — that of plug- ging until we have mastered the knowledge we get from books. Often in our zeal we forget the experiences which we might acquire outside of school hours when our time is our own. Are not these experiments equally important to our future? If we are going to leave school at grad- uation to start upon a life of merely applying our knowledge, our future will not look happy. In any profession or occupation we are going to mingle with other people. Our success will de- pend much upon our ability to get along with these people. We have an unusual opportunity at our high school to prepare for this event. Here we may enter into club activities, and participate in sports and in organizations. It is here we learn to accept the opinion of others. If happiness is largely in remembering, what pleasanter experience could we have to remem- ber than our happy and profitable years spent in work and play together at Weymouth High School ? Dorothy M. Branley ' 32 Paqe Ten

Page 14 text:

Editorial Although this issue of the Reflector is in honor of Washington ' s Birthday, we must not forget that the birthday of another great man occurs in February, also. For some reason or other, no doubt since 1932 is to be marked by nation-wide celebrations to commemorate the two hundredth anniversary of the birth of George Washington, we have received countless essays on all phases of his life, but practically none on Abraham Lin- coln. Of course, this great man must not be forgotten. So we are printing a poem by Edwin Markham, which is, in our opinion, the greatest tribute we could ever hope to pay to Lincoln ' s famous name and fine character. The Editor Lincoln, the M.an of the People Then the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down To make a man to meet the mortal need. She took the tried clay of the common road — Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. Into the shape she breathed a flame to light That tender, tragic, ever-changing face, And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers, Moving — all hushed — behind the mortal veil. Here was a man to hold against the world, A man to match the mountains and the sea. The color of the ground was in him, the red earth, The smack and tang of elemental things ; The rectitude and patience of the cliff; The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves ; The friendly welcome of the wayside well ; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn ; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The secrecy of streams that make their way Under the mountain to the rifted rock ; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking flower As to the great oak flaring to the wind — To the grave ' s low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West He drank the valorous youth of a new world. The strength of virgin forests braced his mind; The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. His words were oaks in acorns; and his thoughts Were roots that firmly gripped the granite truth. Up from the log cabin to the Capitol, One fire was on his spirit, one resolve — To send the keen axe to the root of wrong, Clearing a way for the feet of God, The eyes of conscience testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of a man. He built the rail-pile as he built the State, Pouring his splendid strength through every blow. The grip that swung the axe in Illinois Was on the pen that set a people free. So came the Captain with the mighty heart; And when the judgment thunders split the house, Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again The rafters of the Home. He held his place — Held the long purpose like a growing tree — Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. Edwin Markham What Would Happen Among the Freshmen: If Alice Dixon did not answer in English? If Hilda Beal came to school early? If Max Cormickhall started growing? If Anna Burns ever got zero in math? If Mary Byrne did not blush when you spoke to her? If Vera Callahan got an F ? If Arthur Boudreau could speak English? If Franklin Burrill stopped making wise cracks? If James Connolly did not write notes to a certain freshman girl? If Gerald Carrier did not talk about Canada? A. J. Akerstrom ' 35 Paae Twelve