Winthrop High School - Winthrop Winner Yearbook (Winthrop, ME)

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WINTHROP HIGII SCHOOL 19 ster laughing at her feeble efforts to battle it. For five minutes she struck sharply upstream, fighting it with all the strength of muscle she possessed. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dusk and she could see cakes of ice swirling swiftly downstream, could see also that she was losing ground. But even when she knew that she had lost, she battled with sheer grit. Then a huge something loomed up above the boat, struck it sharply. She felt the boat shiver, splinter, heave-then she was tossed into the chill spring waters of the creek. It seemed that she was whirled down for endless minutes, but she fought her way to the surface, in- stinctively flung out an arm -and touched the log that had crashed into the boat. Weakly, she dragged herself upon it. No use trying to swim in this cold, stormy water. The rubber rain- coat pulled at her as it Was, weighing her down. Water-soaked and shivering, she clung to the slimy surface beneath her. The log itself performed strange antics in the current, swapping ends in a whirlpool, bounding sidways as an ice floe struck it. Just then a sha1'p stab of lightning illumined the creek-a creek which by now resembled a river. Showed black ugly torrents everywhere-but only a few feet to the right, through the gray sleet, Sylvia saw the shore-line, slipping by like a friendly arm in the storm. So near, and yet so far, thought the girl in a strange Hash of humor. Then another ice floe boomed against the log, tossed it like a toothpick into the air. Sylvia hurtled through space. She was vaguely aware that she screamed twice before she struck-not an ice floe, or whirling flood waters, or another log -but MUD. Sticky, soggy, mud that meant one thing only-land. Relief surged through the girl-she had a hysterical urge to laugh aloud-only she couldn't, because her face was buried in the' mud, and she was too weak to laugh, anyway. Then a beam of light struck down- ward, piercing the curtain of rain. Sylvia-Sylvia, was that you? My God! He knelt beside her. Gary! Believe it or not, giggled the girl hysterically, trying to pull herself out of the mud. It IS me. Then remem- bering, she sobered. Gary-get Doc Gray. J unior-awful sick. A very old- fashioned thing to do, she thought. faint, as she drifted off. But everything was all right now, with Gary there . . . It was sunlight and very cosily warm and dry, when Sylvia began to know that she was still alive. She was in the middle of the featherbed in her room at the Lyns, and it felt surprisingly good. There were flowers on the dresser, the stand beside her bed, the windowsill. Medicine smells perireated the room. Staring out the window, with his hands thrust deeply into his pockets. stood a rather familiar figure. How long, asked Sylvia, Have I been absent? He whirled and came over to the bed and put his hands on her shoulders and -Sylvia drew a deep breath: You shouldn't do things quickly like that, she smiled, It might be bad--for my heart pressure! . Well, Doc Gray says you had a con- stitution like a horse to pull through anyway, grinned Gary. How's Junior? Out making mud pies. And Mr. Lyn? Strange intuition urged the question. Gary's pale face answered it. He-didn't come back, dear, he said quietly. T1'agedy lurked, after all, in the shadows of the sunny day. With the sudden, first terrified understanding of youth, Sylvia knew that you couldn't buck Fate. Suppose it had been Gary, down there in the dismal burying ground of the swamp? She shuddered with horror. How did you ever get me across? she asked quietlv. Then involuntarily, Poor Mrs. Lyn. I know. His understanding sym- pathy quieted her nerves. I was afraid you were hurt, but I couldn't stop to make any examinations. I dumped you

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is WINTHROP WINNER We'll be drowned, like rats! My God, what are we going to do ? Keep up your courage, snapped Mrs. Lyn: This can't last much longer. When Pa Lyn learned the substance of their conversation, he squared his shoulders. We can't let those kiddies starve, he said. Pa, what are we goin' to do ? 'Tm goin' to take some supplies down to 'em. I'll haul the rowboat down to the edge of the swamp with the team, then I'll row in. I'll leave the small boat for you - in case anything should hap- pen . . . 'Tm afraid- , murmured his wife. Shucks! It's a cinch. There won't be any current down there. If an old sailor like me can't handle a rowboat he ought to be in Davy J ones' locker. From the window a forlorn family, plus Sylvia, watched him start out with the boatful of provisions. The horses cringed against the wind and iiattened their ears, but the rugged figure in the wagon seat sat erect and sturdy, as he might have stood on the deck of a schooner in the old days, battling against a fierce nor'easter. He knew what faced him, through the driving sleetg treacherous, swirling iiood wa- ters, falling trees, perhaps death. He waved back cheerily at the group in the farmhouse window, and the wagon dipped down the knoll, out of view . . . It seemed to the silent group left be- hind that the rain and wind were pound- ing at the house, reaching at them with hungry, cold fingers. Mrs. Lyn tried the phone, after a while. He must have reached McBerry's by now! But only a queer humming sound greeted her ears. The line was dead! Most of the time Sylvia stood by the windows, watching those menacing gray waters, rising . . . The hands of the clock marched steadily onward. Darkness crept up, and with it a thunder storm. As though the Storm Gods were not sat- isfied with what they had already ac- complished. Lightning, thunder, and still that interminable rain. Then the baby began to cough. Little hacking coughs at first, then great, hoarse, convulsive ones. His face sud- denly grew purpleg he tossed in his crib. It's that croup, said Mrs. Lyn. Syl- via hung over the crib, frightened and inefficient, while the baby's mother heated grease on the stove, trickled it way back in the baby's throat. Watch- ing her, Sylvia decided that for a college graduate, there were a number of things she didn't know. But Junior didn't seem to grow bet- ter. He kicked and thrashed and his face was still that ghastly hue. Sylvia realized that Mrs. Lyn was trembling. He needs a doctor, quick! she gasped. If Doc Gray were only here. Kind old Doc Gray, only a half-mile away, but separated from them by that awful expanse of water! There are times when we make decisions like that. In a split second Sylvia had made hers. I'll get the doctor, she said. If only-someone-could, choked the mother. Sylvia cast a single glance at the piti- ful, twisted baby face. Running up- stairs, she put on her raincoat and over- shoes, pulled an old felt hat down over her coppery hair. Keep up your courage, she said to Mrs. Lyn. God bless you, my dear, sobbed the woman. Then the door was closed behind her, shutting her out in the rain and thunder and lightning. She found the other row- boat, with oars, in the boathouse, dragged it into the water. Then on the bank, looking across the awful expanse of the water, her cour- age faltered. A swell Sir Galahad you are! she scoffed herself, through chattering teeth. Could a girl manage a boat across that fury-ridden sea. alone, at night? Remembering the baby, she de- cided that a girl could, if she had to. Jumping into the boat. she thrust the oars into the locks-shoved away. She was scarcely away before she felt the tug of the black current, like a mon-

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20 WINTHROP WINNER into the truck, went like sixty for Doc Gray unloaded my moto rboat, and transported you both across. EfIiciency personified, said Sylvia with a hint of her old' self showing through. She smiled weakly, You know, Pm beginning to think you make a better Sir Galahad than I do, after all. ' That's what you think. Little girls like you hadn't ought to by trying stunts like that anyway. Sylvia, if you had drowned- . His face went gray. No, rectified Sylvia, trying to be flippant, because tears burned her throat. You're a rotten Sir Galahad. You don't even offer to help a damsel in distress! At your service, m'lady! I'm trying, sighed Sylvia. To ask you to marry me. She didn't have to try Very hard. The End Comparison A frog with a white speckled waist-coat And a robe of dotted green Sat musing on a lily-pad And watched the moon serene, And watched the moon serene. And a great big bull-frog with long brown legs, From a neighboring lily-pad queried My great-eyed one, my pretty-paunched one, Don't you think it time we were married? Don't you think it time we were married? A maiden stood on the bridge above- A lovely young village queen, And she swayed to the tune of her 1over's croon And watched the moon serene. And watched the moon serene. Then he stopped the strumming of his old guitar For no idle words he parried, He caught her and kissed her, the brook whispered back Don't you think it time we were married? Don't you think it time we were married? M. Collins 137. Juniors We Juniors are quite witty At cracking jokes and such, And when it comes to sludying It d0esn't take so-much. We certainly are the leading class, And there is where we'll stay, Till we show 'em we're in earnest By doing our work each day. We Juniors deserve some credit For the work that we maintain, And in the end, we hope- It all will be our gain. M. Oakes. '37 Night Twilight is quietly creeping Over hill and dale, Soon the earth will be sleeping Shrouded with a misty veil. Songbirds have hushed their singing, Trees whisper secrets, age-old, Now God has gathered everything Safe, in his protective fold. Earth is silent with slumber, The moon steals out of the deep, Then, softly in countless numbers, The stars begin to peep. The darkness settles around us, In a ghost-like, mysterious way, To guard the sleeping universe 'Til the dawn of another day. Dorris Dow Y37. The Senior Class of '36 Time glides swiftly on, School days will soon be o'er, As a class of Seniors We will meet no more. Classmates bound together By ties of friendship true, Leaving Winthrop High behind us To enter fields anew. We must take up life's duties, Though they be great or small, Success, glory, honor, Lie before us all. Helen Cummings '36. Storm When stomi clouds gather, dashing hopes raised high, And rain falls from a blank and leaden skyg Then one feels the surge of something infinite and grand That makes Sorrow the guiding spirit of its stand, And drops a tear for every widowed, suffering heart And tears the veil of human souls apart! Giving just a single glimpse of that beyond- And then with one heart-rending, lightning Hash is gone. Marjorie Collins 137.