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

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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

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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

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A Mi ssion This story I found in Naval Records of Ships in Washington, D. C. While the battle was raging the extra radio operator threw this story, in dots and dashes, out in the atmosphere to be picked up by a special tug. It was Friday the thirteenth, December, 1917. A long, lissome destroyer bearing the name U. S. S. Kane cut through the rolling gigantic combers of the North Sea. A cold, biting wind came over her port quarter, which made the deck force shiver. It was a grey, somber, sul- len, freezing day that did not improve the spirits of the men. The Kane had been at sea for two months now, stopping for fuel and supplies. You see, she had a mission assigned to her. She was to capture or sink the German U Boat, U15, that had been sinking so many ships, warring and neutral, in that area. ' Way below decks in the bowels of the trim little destroyer the watch were working hard to keep the old crack under way. Sweating, swearing, working gobs stripped to the waist shoveled coal into the huge boilers. On deck men were cleaning, priming, greasing and oiling guns and torpedo tubes. They shivered at their work, and muttered a curse now and then. Up on the bridge officers were busily engaged pour- ing over navigating charts. Above them, on the flying bridge, signal men were busy at their work. And way up above them on the deck, at a dizzy height, the lookout hung on for dear life, but always alert and conscious. The most impressive thing was the way the men were working with silent, death-defying grimness. At that minute, from the lookout, there came a sing-song, mournful bellow, Periscope ho! From the bridge came the query, Where away? Then the answer, Two points off the starboard bow. A general alarm was sounded and battle stations were named. But before the Kane could fire, three lithe dirigible-shaped ob- jects left the U15, as it proved to be, in their white, foamy wake. The torpedoes from the submarine hit the destroyer amidships, before she could maneuver out of their way, leaving leaks hopeless to fix. Then the Kane fired her Completed first volley, but in vain. The U-boat had im- mediately dived, and the torpedoes and shells from the destroyer had been useless. To an outsider it would seem that the battle was lost, but to the Navy it had just begun. Depth bombs were heaved into the swirling brine, and on that sinking ship not a man so much as blinked an eyelid toward escape and safety for himself. Then came an eruption that seemed to come from the bottom of the ocean, but was only the U-boat blowing up. The depth bombs at last had found their target. The Kane had been almost cut in half by the torpedoes that had hit her. So the terrible strain that had been put on her broke the destroyer in halves. All hands were lost, but I know each man had a smile on his face, because he had helped to carry out their mission. Roy Tenny ' 35 Thoughts As I sat typing wearily at a letter which I had tried again and again to write correctly, my thoughts drifted away from the page in front of me. I still struck at the keys mechan- ically, but I knew not what I wrote. I was now a weary British soldier dwelling on unforgettable days of the past. My thoughts took me to an old Moulmein Pagoda in the far East, where a Burma girl knelt in devout prayer be- fore a huge stone idol. The tinkling temple bells made my blood pulse rapidly through my veins, and the soft, balmy, scented air, with the rustling and murmuring of the tall grass and underbrush, filled me with a feverish desire to be back once more beneath its spell, and away from the cold, gloomy fog of London. I sav- agely compared the heavy, beefy-faced, English maiden to that slim, dusky Burma girl. I yearned to rise once again with the dawn as it came from the depths of China across the Bay. Gradually the clicking of the keys brought me back to the dull, everv-day surroundings, and glancing at the copy in the machine before me, I found that I had typed the words to Rudyard Kipling ' s Road to Mandalav. R. MacDougall ' 33 Pane Thirteen