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

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4 REFLECTOR way. Would she ever forget the scene? The blurred faces before her, the tense excitement, the gorgeous costumes, the almost consuming brilliance of the lights, the warm congratula- tions, the banks of flowers presented at the last curtain call, and last and best of all, the compli- ments and attentions of Harold Farnsley. Her face was alive; her every nerve respon- sive. Her cheeks were no longer pallid, her man- ner no longer listless. Against the background of the fire ' s dancing light, Charlotte made a pic- ture — a picture that resembled in a strong de- gree how she might have looked on that gala night. The melodious chiming of bells aroused her abruptly. She suddenly became conscious of her whereabouts, of the time, of herself; yet the Charlotte Manston of an hour ago was not now. Comfortably she pondered the real meaning of the word thanks, and silently, prayerfully, of- fered hers. Edna Foster ' 34 Anyway, Hale Wo n It was the last minute of the last quarter. John Hale, quarterback, barked out the signals, felt the ball strike his hands, already numbed by the cold, grasped it firmly, and followed his defence. He dodged one man, evaded another, his mind working rapidly. It was their last game, and the score stood — 0. It was the last chance for victory. John tried wildly to dodge a tackier, but in vain ; the man struck him with terrific force which stunned him, and things suddenly turned black. John Hale found himself wandering along a pretty country road, by the side of which grew beautiful flowers of varying shades and patterns. Birds were singing in nearby fields. Across the road in front of him flitted a beautiful pink but- terfly winging its erratic way toward a field cov- ered with myriads of flowers. Why, that but- CODMAN ' S DEPT. STORE Weymouth Landing Headquarters for Hosiery and Underwear I terfly was surely the specie described by his bot- any professor as one of the rarest in the world ! I must catch it! he exclaimed, and leaping over an ivy covered wall, started in pursuit of the flitting butterfly. It whirled, darted, and turned; John did like- wise. He ran and ran. He was very near it now. Suddenly it began to sing; the singing rapidly became a roar, John reached out and grasped the creature, stumbled on an immense rock, and fell heavily. Anyone in the stadium would have seen John Hale running down the field, seen him struck with smashing force by an opposing player, seen him stumble, miraculously regain his balance, and continue to plunge down the field to the goal line, where he stumbled and crashed to the ground — over for a touchdown just as the game ended. To John Hale the roaring became louder. Someone was hammering him on the back and yelling hysterically in his ear, praising him and shouting Hurrah! we ' ve won! Won what? he asked dumbly, for things were whirling and gyrating around him with amazing rapidity, and he was terribly dazed. Why, what ' s the mat- ter? Don ' t you know? they shrieked at him. Suddenly he appeared to remember, and holding the football before the eyes of his gaping and very much dumbfounded companions, he cried, Why, of course, look! It ' s a pink butterfly and it sings! Hurrah, for me! W. Clement Query ' 34 My Pines On yonder hill a row of pines Like faithful guardians stand, Serene and tall in stately line, A part of God ' s great plan. And every night at close of day, I gaze at yonder hill ; And know my ever friendly pines Are watching o ' er me still. Dorothy Smith ' 34 Back-seat driver: Hurry, Henry. A silly man on a motorcycle is trying to pass us.

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using Nearly everyone at one time or another has periods of time when he falls into a sort of brooding, selfless stupor. At these times the mind seems to be an impressionable plate, across which broken pictures pass fleetingly. Stray fig- ures and forms crop up and parade as militants before the mind ' s eye. Now and then long for- gotten individuals are outlined upon one ' s con- sciousness, and again persons whom we might have given merely a cursory glance sometimes hover about in the inner retreats of our mind, somewhat blurred perhaps, but always on the verge of breaking out into reality. It was in one of these moods that Charlotte Manston sat within the grim-visaged walls of Oarfield Hall on the night before Thanksgiving Day. Her state of mind however, was not of the happiest; it was, on the other hand, one of dejection and cancerous regret. Thanks? What thanks, indeed, had she to give? Her life, she reflected bitterly, had been a hard one, hard, that is, not as most of us count hardness, not in wealth, social position, education, but rather in the warring characteristics of her own nature, in her own aggressiveness and stoi cism. Most of her life she had lived internally, not so much by choice, as by necessity. Even the closest of her friends had caught only an occasional glimpse of the real woman ; for the most part they were allowed to see only the volcanic, pet- ulant counterfeit. As it happened, on this night the weather complemented Charlotte ' s mood exactly. The blazing light of her eyes and the cynical twist of her lips seemed to find comfort in the uncom- promising mist. Yet, as the drizzle was replaced before long by a heavy, blanketing fog, so some- thing in Charlotte Manston was replaced too. Her eyes became luminous, her mouth smiling, her expression far away. At that moment this aged woman wasn ' t aware that such a thing as a fog existed. She was traveling back, as she often did, to an incident in her life long ago set apart as a great milestone. To begin with, in her earlier years Charlotte Manston had had strong convictions of becom- ing an actress, although because of family preju- dice and certain other scruples, acting had not become a realized ambition. The year following her graduation from Sheaves Hall, New York City, Charlotte spent with a friend of her mother ' s, touring the continent. In the later fall, when the theater was again waking to its own importance, the two crossed over to London. Here, more for a lark than anything else and reassured by the thousands of miles between her and the raised brows of her family, Charlotte delightedly began the study of her beloved dra- matics. In a way that even to her was not clear, the young aspirant received a last moment notice to appear in one of the great London box-office attractions of the season. At this point in her rampant thoughts, Char- lotte nodded her head in a self-congratulatory

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5 Radio Station If a person wishes to see the process of a radio broadcast, he may visit the Edison Electric Il- luminating Company ' s broadcast studio located at the corner of Tremont and Boylston streets in the city of Boston. After ascending in the elevator to the four- teenth floor, he will be admitted to the lounge, or waiting room. In this room one may rest, smoke, and see a broadcast put on the air. While the studios are being used for broadcasting pur- poses, no visitors ar e allowed in them. All who wish to see the performers must remain in the lounge, and look through extra thick plate glass windows, which open into the main studio. Of course no sounds can either enter or leave this room. It is absolutely sound proof . The lounge is, however, provided with a loud speaker from which the performer ' s voice within the studio is brought to the audience in the lounge. When the programme changes and a broadcast from the National Broadcasting Company in New York is on the air, one may enter the main studio. The door which the guide opens is a very peculiar one. It resembles the large door of a refrigerator or the heavy door of a safe. Upon entering, one has an oppressed feeling due to the fact that the walls are heavily padded with a sound proof material so that no echoes of any kind can be produced. Hundreds of small holes can be seen in the white paneling of the wall. This also aids in the suppression of echoes. On a small platform is a low desk upon which is a box having on its face a number of knobs, lights, and switches. This is the microphone- control unit. From this point all microphones in the studio can be controlled by the chief an- nouncer. To our left is the studio organ manual. The organ proper is placed in a gallery above and is electrically controlled from the manual keyboard on the studio floor. Many sound effects, includ- ing drums, sirens, whistles, burglar alarms, in fact a whole orchestra, is included in this giant organ. Below the organ gallery is a small control room, holding the equipment necessary to amp- lify the weak microphone currents. Other panels are for the control of tone, volume, and clarity. From this room the broadc ast program leaves the studio on its long journey to Weymouth over telephone wires. Two sets of wires are em- ployed ; one for the program, the other for a pri- vate telephone. On the grounds of the Edison Electric plant at Weymouth there are two large metal towers which reach high into the air. Between these two masts is strung the antenna wires. Directly beneath the antenna is a small brick building called the radio shack. As we enter the door, we see a mass of instruments on panel-boards. At our right, facing us, is a desk. A pleasant- looking gentleman is seated, tilting back in an easy chair, constantly gazing at a panel-board on the right. He is actually looking at the fluctu- ation needle of an electric meter. This meter tells how much power is coming from the studio in Boston. The broadcast program is transferred from the modulator rack to successive racks and panels, thence to the antenna. From the an- tenna the radio waves are sent off in equal di- rections with equal force into the ether. The high-voltage current used by the power- ful vacuum tubes in the transmission is supplied by motor-generators which are in another room at the back of the shack . Radio station W E E I, the Edison Electric Illuminating Company ' s station, broadcasts on a wave-length of 508.2 metres or at a frequency of 590 kilocycles. John R. Hall ' 34 Mrs. Jones (to new maid) : Didn ' t I tell you to notice when the milk boiled over? Mandy : Well, I did. It was quarter of four. ARCHIE ' S BARBER SHOP; South Weymouth Depot I