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

Page 4 text:

Sartor g taff 1934-1935 Editor Virginia Donley ' 35 Business Manager John MacDonnell ' 3 5 Assistant Norman Morrisey ' 3 5 Athletics Francis Long ' 35 Art Virginia Howe ' 36 Assistant Robert Candy ' 37 Literary Dorothy Baker ' 35 Doroth Cain ' 3 5 Alice Crowley ' 35 Beryl Gray ' 35 Elizabeth Groht ' 3 5 Marie Keohan ' 3 5 Rose Leonard ' 3 5 Kathleen Mathewson ' 35 Ailine Price ' 35 Rhoda Spurr ' 35 Theresa Stagliola ' 35 Jean Brewer ' 36 Harry Coleman ' 36 Marie O ' Donnrll ' 36 Secretaries Mildred Brooks ' 35 Dorothy Cote ' 3 5 Ethel Hanian ' 35 Ruth Locke ' 35 Jeanne Lockhart 35 Jeannie Worthley 35 Trade School John Christie ' 3 5 Donald MacDougal ' 35 Faculty Adviser P. B. B-owr. SOUTHEASTERN Advertising Marjorie Bentley ' 35 Elva Newton ' 3 5 Eleanor Dresser ' 36 Leona Gregory ' 36 Robert Kainan ' 36 Laura Kelley ' 36 Barbara Merrick ' 16 Carol Seach ' 36 Frances Bates ' 37 Barbara Donley 37 Genevieve Fuller ' 37 Lucille Groht ' 37 Carolyn Morrill ' 37 Kathlyne Wood ' 37 Sable nf (Enntntta Literary Snoops Editorials Athletics School News Languages Observer Music Crystal Ball Page 3 16 17 18 22 23 24 25 26 Printed by Printing Department, Weymouth Vocational School, Harry F. Duncan, Instructor

Page 3 text:

deflector Volume XIII GUjriBtmaa 1934 WEYMOUTH HIGH SCHOOL Weymouth, Massachusetts Number 2

Page 5 text:

liferarp AS eaman s Ck ristmas Roy Xenny 35 December the twenty-fifth. Christmas. Red lights, green lights. Turkey, candy, cider, stuffed stockings, fireplaces, Santa ' s presents, merry-making. These thoughts raced madly through my whirling brain, as I renewed my savage grip on the lifeling aboard the trim little Naval Destroyer, 17. S. S. MacFarland. A white capped, seething mountain of green smashed down on the little thin plates of the gallant old Mickey, and her tiny, elastic, tough, still sides trembled and shivered like the bones of an old skeleton that had been roughly thrown into the corner. The hideous green avalanche poured over the deck, soaking me to the bone. I bit my lip till I tasted blood, as the life-line cut into my cold, salt-water-soaked hands, and old man Neptune ' s glorious sea tried hard to pull me over the side a nd down to Davy Jones ' locker. I finally won that struggle, but did not feel fit for another. Under special orders we had suddenly been detailed to join the Scouting Fleet at Panama. We had been docked in our home port, and I had been looking forward to a pleasant Christ- mas furlough. Now here I was, terribly sea- sick, grimly hanging on to a stanchion con- nected to a lurching steel tub, over one hundred miles out at sea, with two theatre tickets in my pocket, besides a full month ' s pay. What a way to spend Christmas. I definitely decided to de- sert the next time we hit port. The Mickey ' s lissome hull slipped dizzily down the side of a breaker into a cavernous hol- low. With a sickening roll, which only a destroyer could perform, she started up the in- cline of the next vertical volcanic-like breaker with her scuppers under. High above the decks, and too sea-sick to be of any use, the lookout desperately clung to his little crow ' s-nest, as the long tapering mast swung back and forth against the bleak grey sky like the pendulum of a mammoth grandfather ' s clock. A howling gale whipped the snowflakes into a biting blizzard. Far below decks, sweating and swearing, the engineers tried vainly to keep their balance. It would be very unpleasant to trip and fall into those churning pistons. A shrieking wind, a resounding crash, and our wireless was ren- dered useless. A gigantic comber tore away our forward port lifeboat. All the gobs were busily engaged, trying to do their work. A tired overworked naviga- tion officer decided to go to the galley for a cup of hot coffee. He stepped out of the cabin to the bridge and glanced aloft at the ice-coated rigging. Warily he started down the ladder that was coated with frozen salt-water spray, and which led to the deck. Another drunken lurch on the part of the Destroyer 237, and the officer slipped, fell, rolled across the tilted deck, and was washed overboard. Luckily, as he had been working in the cabin, he had not been wear- ing heavy oilskins. The cry of Man overboard ! was raised, and the deck force ran to their life-saving stations. The ship ' s headway was immediately checked, and oil was poured over the side to smooth the choppy seas. The air, trapped in the officer ' s clothes, bouyed him up for an instant. During this instant, a life-preserver was hurled to him. He could now last a little while longer. The sea was too rough to even think of lowering a boat. A quick-thinking sailor grabbed up a coil of rope, tied a bowline around his body, and thrust the other end into my hands. While the little ship was on the crest of an Atlantic roller, he dived over the side. Other seamen rushed to help me guide the line that depended on the