Abington High School - Abhis Yearbook (Abington, MA)

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THE ABHIS 7 herself running as fast as her nimble feet could carry her. She reached the front lawn, stumbled over hoses and under ladders and dashed to the door. The key! Where was the key? No one was at home to let her in. She sobbed, tears running down her cheeks. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! She must find that key! She fumbled in her pocket for it. It wasnit there! It must have fallen out while she was running. The window! Try the window! Ah! At last luck had turned her way. As the window opened, she jumped in and stood, paralyzed with fear. Her dog! Were was he? Sud- denly she saw a small figure running toward her and breathed a sigh of relief, but by the time she had gathered the small creature up in her arms the flames were licking her face. Then she spotted a blanket and reached for it. As she did, it caught on fire. The thought came to her that she was trapped! Trapped in a room full of flames, with no door or window near. Was this to be her fate? She could not die like this, she mustn't! She had a happy future ahead of her, so she knew she would have to take a chance and run through the ilames to the window! With the dog whimpering in her arms, she made a dash for ir, yanked open the flaming window, and jumped to safety. As she reached the front of the burning house, the side which she had just left collapsed! After it was all over, Chris, with her mother and father and her dog, surveyed the ruins of what once had been a very beautiful home. Then Chris remembered her beautiful art set, and looked at her hands. They were severely burned. With her hands outstretched, she turned to her mother and father, trying to hold back the tears that soon splashed down harder than ever. Her mother gasped, her father said nothing but just stared. Later the doctor broke the news to Chris, men- tioning something to the effect that it would be a matter of months before she would regain the full use of her hands, but she didn't seem to hear him. She just sat and stared. Chris could not cry any more. JUDY GAFNEY, '54 THE SPELLING BEE When the spelling bee was only three days away, Sarah Chadwick had already studied practically every word in the dictionary. Even though she was only in the sixth grade, Sarah was the best speller in her school. That was partly because there were only twenty-four pupils in the school, and her mother had taught her to read and write before she went to school. It's going to be a hard job to win the spelling bee with Timothy Squires and his sister Janie com- peting against me, said Sarah to her mother as she was studying words and thinking about the light, fluffy snow falling outside. I know it's going to be hard, but do not be in too much of a hurry. You'd better stop studying for a while now, because I want you to go to town and get some paregoric for Johnny's cold. Write it down, so you won't forget what it is. Sarah sighed and said in a tone of disgust, How can I write the old word when I don't even know how to spell it? Who'd ever want to know that word, anyhow? After putting on boots and all of her other winter clothes, Sarah trudged out of the house, angry to think that her mother didn't want her to study so that she could win the bee. It was mid afternoon, and the sun was slowly setting as Sarah shuflied along, trying to remember the name of the medicine she had just secured. P-a-r-e-g-o-r-i-c-! What a queer name, p-a-r-e- g-0-r-i-c. Mrs. Snow said that it would help Johnny a lot. It ought to, I went through enough to get it. It was two days later, and everybody was in a dither, especially Sarah. There were only four other children left besides herself, and it was her turn to recite. The boy before her had just spelled separate as seperate S-e-p-a-r-a-t-e, said Sarah, quite sure of herself. Suddenly the professor said something which made everyone's heart sink. Since there are no more words in the speller, I will open the diction- ary to any page and use those words. All right, Timothy, spell paragraph.

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6 THE ABHIS ing and screaming of macaws, parrakeets, and countless other boisterous members of the animal kingdom, -the cries of which are echoing and re- echoing through the impenetrable thickets of this desolate wilderness. As you are about to return to the clearing, the usual tropical noises are abruptly stilled by the agonized, shrill, almost inhuman shriek of some terrified creature, which gradually tapers off into a chortled gurgle! A tense unbearable silence fol- lows. Suddenly there is a crackling and crashing from within the underbrush and through the mat- ted green foliage and entangled growth appears the massive head and powerfully molded shoulders of a huge gorilla! It emerges slowly from the snarled mass of vegetation, and as you stand there motionless in your tracks and gripped by a paralyz- ing fear, you distinguish the ugly features and gro- tesque crinkled countenance of the enormous hairy monster, not fifty yards distant. One great bloody paw tightly clutches the horrible, sickening re- mains of a human arm, evidently wrenched brutally from the socket of its recent owner. The explana- tion is now all too simple. An unfortunate native bearer must have unknowingly antagonized the beast in some manner so as to achieve such fatal results. As the animal, apparently insane with an- ger, advances with murderous intent, you overcome your horror and break out into a frenzied run for camp. The gorilla rises to its full height, and as it expands its mighty chest, the jungle resounds with a ferocious thundering roar that strikes terror into the hearts of all within hearing distance. Then the hairy beast, its tortured mind maddened by your intrusion on the scene, charges after you. You are now running the most important race of your ca- reer, a frantic dash for life! Presently you remem- ber the pit! If you can reach the pit before that insane monster reaches you, perhaps you can win this desperate race. For a brief instant you halt, turn, and rush into the jungle, at a right angle to the direction of camp. As you stumble blindly through the jungle thick- ets, tripping constantly over concealed vines, horri- fied, you hear the crashing and crunching of mighty feet on the growth behind you, signifying the steady gain of that clumsy monster, surprisingly agile for his great magnitude. The seconds appear as minutes, the minutes as hours. You cannot keep this up much longer! Could you have misjudged the position of the pit? Suddenly an uncontrollable panic seizes you, a sharp pain stabs you in the small of the back. You are about to surrender to a horrible fate when mi- raculously the pit looms ominously into view and with renewed effort you cover the remaining yard- age to your objective, clearing the pit with a final burst of strength, the feared gorilla grunting sadis- tically, not more than twenty feet behind. Almost instantaneously the beast plunges through the con- cealing underbrush and with a rumbling crash plunges, howling, to the depths of the pit! The gorilla is captured. You are safe! WILLIAM GRooM, '53 THE ARTIST First of all, let me tell you that Chris was an artist who could draw almost anything that anyone might ask her to draw. Inspired by her admiration for anything beautiful, her artistic hands moved like wildfire over canvas. Chris had always dawdled on her school papers instead of doing the regular work and sometimes had not done very well in her subjects. It all happened right after Christmas when her mother gave her that beautiful art set, complete with special pens, paper and other seemingly end- less articles. On the first day of school after Christmas vaca- tion Christine's mother said she would have to go shopping and did not know when she would be back. Chris skipped back to school and boasted to her chums about her new art set. She had an unusually successful day in her studies and had just turned the corner onto the street leading up to her house, when, suddenly, disturbing her beautiful dreams, came the sound of a siren! The thought struck her -a lire engine! Chris did not think much more about the subject until the red truck also turned the corner, going in her direction. She smelled smoke! She watched with eager eyesg then suddenly the truck screeched to a stop! Men began yelling for hoses and ladders, running frantically about. Finally Chris came to her senses. Her house! They had stopped at her house! Before she knew what she was doing, she found be

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8 THE ABHIS P-a-r-g-r-a-p-h. No, it's wrong. Sarah, it's your turn. P-a-r-a-g-r-a-p-h. Very good. Now it's Harry's turn. I want you to spell paregoric. I know you've never heard of it, but try, anyway. Paragoric. No, now let's see how Sarah can do. Pa-r-e-g-o-r-i-c, said Sarah, full of confidence. Correct! There was a roar of applause, and Sarah rushed to her mother. There was not a hap- pier girl than Sarah, and you can probably guess wh . Y NANCY SLAYTER, '53 LIFE AT A. H. S. It is seven-forty-live in the morning and another day at Abington High School is beginning. Right now I'm doing a real bang-up job of wasting lif- teen minutes as I am sitting on the bleachers talk- ing over the news of the day with my energetic friends and at the same time listening to an an- cient record being played for the fourth time this morning. Now it is eight o'clock and after the Star-Span- gled Banner has faithfully stumbled from the loudspeaker I settle down to do the three lengthy assignments which I told myself could so easily be done in activity period. After a few minor inter- ruptions, however, such as a general fire drill and some announcements made by the principal, I managed partially to complete one subject. My ears are still clicking and my hands are numb as I emerge from the typing room and again expose myself to the dangers involved in walk- ing in the A. H. S. hallway. Now it's second period and I enter my beloved French class. Faites attention! booms the instruc- tor from behind his dark-rimmed glasses. I shudder as his optical gunfire passes up and down the rows to see that everything is just so. Now he moves to the blackboard and starts writing sentences which all look like Greek to me. Failing to recall ever having any course in Greek, I come to the startling conclusion that these are French sentences. Managing to survive a few verbal bombardrnents, I fight my way to English. Here an utterly intriguing discussion of parricipial phrases holds me entranced. But after forty-five minutes of inspired discussion and undivided in- terest, the bell rings and I tear myself away from this captivating subject. Next period--Algebra. The instructor enters, marches to the windows, throws them open, turns off the heat, closes the door, and we're off. The teacher juggles chalk in the manner of an actor out of a television set. His feats of skill with the white objects soon make us forget the frozen ink in the ink wells. Tomorrow I shall remember to bring some anti-freeze to put in my pen. One member of my algebra class can be depended upon to come up with such a stupid question that it amazes me at how calmly and patiently the teacher answers. The teacher is spared many of these inquiries as the words freeze and drop to the Hoot before they reach him. As the time for the bell to ring nears, we all close our books and prepare to sprint for the cafeteria. After a few unofficial records for the one-hundred-yard dash have been set, the line forms for the hot lunch. This line is the scene of more bribes than are seen in ten years of Boston politics. Following a couple of uneventful study periods, I at last come to my last period of the day-Biol- ogy. Thar's where you learn what makes you tick. Sometimes we even delve into Chemistry. This brings to mind the time when our teacher mixed some green liquid, with a few innocent-looking yel- low lumps of something that started with P . . . A few minutes later, as the smoke cleared, the in- structor explained what had caused the combus- tion. The hydrogen combined with the oxygen and was ignited by the heat from . . . at this point she was interrupted by a student in the back row. So that's how they make the hydrogen bomb! he exclaimed. Thus, a typical day at Abington High School comes to a close with a bang. RUSSELL WHEATLEY, '55 Reception of the Soldiers of Abington, July 27, 1865, from the Civil Warm A july 27, 1865 Dear journal: V About live o'clock this morning, the peal of church bells and the boom of cannon awakened Carrie and me out of our sound sleep. For an in- stant, both of us wondered what had happened, and then suddenly all sleepiness was erased from our minds, as another peal of church bells broke through the morning air, and we remembered that this was the longed-for and dreamed-of day of the Soldiers' Reception. While Carrie and I washed in the cold water at our brand new iron sink and then slipped into our best white poplin frocks, our long white cotton knitted stockings, and best high button shoes, the sun's rays were already beginning to break through the pink and gray dawn, promis- ing us a beautiful day. X. For breakfast we had the usual derestable corn- meal mush and molasses CI don't see why Mother won't use that new cereal and brown 'sugar I told her aboutj , but it wasn't quite so bad this morning, because we ate it so quickly. After breakfast, we watched until eight o'clock from our bedroom win- dows as people began going by and the big parade