Arlington High School - Indian Yearbook (Arlington, MA)

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10 THE ARLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL CLARION until we blush green with embarass- ment. The usher comes down with a flashlight; we stand up; and to our utter disgust and the neighbors’ en- joyment it is found that we had put our hat under the seat. After resuming our natural complex- ion, we sit back to enjoy the rest of the show. But not for long ; the per- sons in front of us go out. Two other people take their seats. The one in front of us is very wide and built close to the ground. She takes off her fur coat, folds it up carefully, and lifts herself on top of the coat. At this we are almost vanquished, but only for a short time. There is one indenta- tion in her anatomy which allows us a splendid view. Bah, she moves again. We try to keep pace with her shiftings in attempting to obtain a good view. At last she settles, allowing us one very uncomfortable angle from which to see the screen. A few seats down front are vacated. We attempt to gain one of them as a stronghold, but our last pests, much to our astonishment, are very nimble in procuring these seats. At last we are comfortable for all time. Nothing to bother us. — Not so. Our friend the news reel faces us again, and out we go much impressed by the varied program offered by human nature. Naturally, we are ver y good-natured after being so amused. As we pass out (the door), we snicker at the en- joyment given to us by some irrespon- sible people’s actions. But, alas, the snicker turns to a positive groan, and our heart sinks as we discover the inevitable hat has been left under the seat. A. E. Lane, ’26. The Great Black Rock Bock in general is not considered worth a second thought, much less capable of having the emotions attribu- ted to human beings. In fact, this par- ticular part of nature is usually looked upon by man as an impediment, and its usefulness is often disregarded. However, I know of a rock which to me means more than an obstruction, and more than an ugly, compact mass of matter. It is my friend. I have spent several summers at a beach not far from Boston; and, al- though it is overblessed with rocks of various shapes and sizes, they do not deter my family nor our neighbors from enjoying a daily dip in the ocean, and I do not think that we would trade our boulders for the finest sand. About a hundred yards out from our cottage stands a gigantic black rock, towering high above any of its comrades, and this rock I have singled out as my favorite and have spent many an hour on its great flat top, reading or watch- ing the tiny white sails slowly dis- appear over the horizon. Each day as the tide began to go out I would get into my bathing suit and wait until I saw the blunt, friendly top of the rock appear above the greenish white- capped waves, before swimming out to it to idle away an hour or two in its company. I felt that this rock was human, that it liked to have company and, perhaps egotistically, my own most of all. We would sit together for hours, our dreams never shattered by unwelcome conversation, a sort of complete under-

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THE ARLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL CLARION Hanson cried, “Here’s the ring, on the floor by the broken flower pot.” She picked it up while Ezra finished tying np the thief, after which he sent for a patrol wagon. The police arrived and carried Mr. Fuller out from his house. The driver of the patrol took the ring from the would-be detective’s hands and told him to appear in court the next morning. Miss Hanson show ' ered her friend with thanks as they drove back to town in a taxi. At Times Square they separated, Miss Hanson going to see about her brother’s release and her es- cort going to Flint and Skinner’s De- tective Agency. When lie arrived there, he found that it was already !) known that the ring had been recovered by a rube detective. He went into Mr. Flint’s office and said, “I represent the Ketchum and Killum Detective Agency. I’ve just re- covered the Willis ring, and I thought I’d tell you that you’re not so much as you think you are.” Mr. Flint looked Ezra over and said, “Boy, there’s no such agency. That ' s just a way to fleece some poor suckers out of twenty-five dollars; but if you want to be a detective, belong to a de- cent agency.” So saying, Mr. Flint took the badge lie had on his own coat and put it on Ezra’s vest in place of the other one. John F. Gruber, ’24. At the Movies The movies are probably the cheapest and most popular (because of cheap- ness) form of amusement indulged in at present. Every one attends the mov- ies because of the variety of showings. There is always the news reel, never mind how old the reel is, and we may have seen it a dozen times, but never- theless there must be the news reel. The reel must bore us to death, we see ships being christened with — — cider; we see the new way to extend the life of a bed bug, we see a cornerstone being laid for a building by a distinct- ive brick layer in a tall hat. By this time we are interested in the conver- sations taking place around us, and forget about the pictures. The feature picture is shown, at the same time one of our expressive neigh- bors lets every one know that she seen it. Then the plot is out, our neighbor begins the tale, “ibis guy had it in for that guy ; yuh, the one wid the stovepipe lid on. — Oh, she don’t luv him a-tall. As l wuz sayin’, this guy played a dirty trick on the other guy and so the other guy kills him and he dies. Say, did some one tell me to shut up; why usher, I ain’t said a word, it wuz that red head in front.” By the time this worry has been re- moved, we always have lost the plot of the story. The story is almost in our minds again when we hear another familiar sound. Crack — crack — crack. Sure, it is our old friend the peanut eater. With each “crack” our mind grows more and more intent on destroy- ing the element. Hanging would be too gentle for him. Added to this ' , some rattlebrained person (dumbell) makes a dash for the seat in the middle of our row, missing only the little toe on the right foot. Our hat is the next disturbing thing. We had it a minute ago, but not now. Aimlessly we feel under the seat, bumping our head against the seat in front. People in the neighborhood endeavor to help us

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THE ARLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL CLARION 11 standing, existing between ns. We knew each other’s moods, and respected them and, if one of ns was tired, the other realized that the silence, broken only by the dull booming of the surf, was far more comforting to his companion than anything he could say. This massive, unyielding block is stern, hard, yes, and ugly, yet my friend forever, never complaining, never self-praising, my word his bond, and my presence bis consolation. John W. Devine, ’24. One of Ours By Willa Gather I received a most agreeable surprise a short time ago. 1 decided to read One of Onrs,” by Willa Gather, just because every one else was reading it and one likes to be able to say in a condescending tone: Oh yes, I’ve read that. Ages ago! How did you like it?” when some one mentions a new book. Well, as I said, I began One of Ours” more as a duty than anything else, and I expected to be bored to dis- traction. But the first word that caught my eyes was “circus” and I immediately knew I should like the book. That one word is about all there is of the circus, but once into the story Claude Wheeler, the hero, kept me in- terested. He is a Middle Western farmer’s son and seems to be the ugly duckling of the family. He dislikes his name; no one really understands him, and lie has to fight all his battles alone. He tries to make bis life count for some- thing real, but after each attempt he feels that la has failed. He lacks self- confidence. The scene ' shifts from the western farm to the battlefields of France and there Claude works out his problem. The story is so written that one must sympathize with Claude and love all who love him. The book is interesting and enjoyable and I’m very glad I read it. I can now face tbe world with a condescending glance when One of Ours” is mentioned and, besides, I now know Claude and that more than pays me for reading the book. Dorothy Howse, ’24. An Alaskan Night Not a breath, not a sound, nothing Disturbs the stillness of the night; Treeless, lifeless, windless, glistening, The country stands all clothed in white. Silence reigns. Great gaping cracks in the frozen stream Hold menace for all who venture near ; The stars seem cold and gleam Upon a night crisp and clear. An Alaskan night. And then, across the frozen land, A cracking, terrifying sound Snaps crisp like a command. That is all. Far above Hie frozen ground Pale stars gleam. Stars — cold, frosty, pale. There is no moon On such a night — an Alaskan night, A night of fear, of death, of gloom. Booms one lone sound from the glac- ier’s might, Breaking the frozen silence. Ever-changing, ever-awesome, ghostly, Holding death within its hands, The treacherous glacier calls con- stantly ; It fascinates, it compells, it com- mands. Silence reigns. Grace Ogilvie, ’24.