Arms Academy - Student Yearbook (Shelburne Falls, MA)

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warning find myself confronted with the most perplexing situation. I have Charles Clear- water, a veritable Beau Brummel, chasing Randolph Rindstone. the black-hearted villain. across the desert: I haven't the slightest idea what they are going to do next. After thinking for a while. I resort to calling up a girl friend and asking her it she has ever chased or been chased across a desert by a villain. She suggests that the villain fall off a cliff and that the hero and heroine live happily ever after. Although the whole situation seems a bit improbable, I accept it as the only solution to my problem. and the first draft is promptly finished. I read this unpolished diamond, so to speak, to an ever-patient mother. who gives me timely advice and helps me smooth out the roughest spots. The clock ticks merrily along: the hour gets closer and closer to midnight: I realize that I haven't done any of my other studying and that, unless I want the wrath of all the rest of my teachers on my head, I had better get started. Having done my other studying in a half-hearted fashion, I throw my weary self into bed and determine to copy the theme in school the next day. In my first study period I conscientiously copy a page and a half: then my pen with a scratch runs dry. At times like these one certainly feels like using no small amount of profane language. I search the study hall for someone with a bottle of ink, some of which I borrow. I have time to copy only a few more lines before the bell rings and the period ends. During the next study period I manage to get quite a bit accomplished. but I realize too late that I should have made a paragraph here and used a different word there. At the end of the school day I have finished my task. With a sigh of relief I place the theme tenderly upon the teacher's desk. resolving never again to leave anything until the last minute. Now, please don't get me wrong: I love themeslll Arlene Wood. '41 SONG OF THE SEA Come, let us go this fine spring day With the breeze to the dancing sea. Lookl How the waves and the sunbeams play, Dancing for you and for me. Come, let us go where the mermaids play And the white cliffs rise from the sea. We'll go where the sun sends its first lovely ray And the sea maids are dancing with glee. Come, let us go where the proud ships sail And the sea gull calls to its mate. We'll go far out o'er the boundless deep. Where the winds their tales relate. Come, let us go where the blue ocean foams. Where the waves dance wildly o'er: And we'll swim to the rhythm of the wind As it whistles its way toward the shore. Dorothy Fairbanks, '39 SUNSETS Sunsets of the spacious West, Spreading wide their blanket gold. Settle as a queen to rest Peacefully blending new and old. Sarah Richmond, '40 Page Sixty Five

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ON WRITING A THEME As we enter English class some bright and sunny day our teacher casually informs us that we have a theme due in three weeks. The subiect, she tells us, may be anything in which we are interested. Immediately I make a resolution that I will tackle this theme on the next weekend and be among the first to pass it in. The weekend comes, as all weekends do, and offers the usual temptations to take it easy and not accomplish anything. I excuse myself by telling myself that last week was a strenuous one and I need a rest: next week I will take that theme by the horns and really do it. Comes the next weekend: it does absolutely no good to remind myself of my earlier intentions. because my mind just doesn't understand. Well, during the following weekend I come to my senses and declare that the weekend to come will be an ideal one for writing a theme. This time I really do start my masterpiece. I gather pencil and paper. sit down at my desk, and then busily engage myself in the task of chewing the end of my pencil. This accomplished. I must get up and sharpen the pencil. Again comfortably seated, I hear the doorbell ring: soon two of my girl friends dash into my room. At their suggestion that we make fudge, I utterly abandon the idea of ever finishing for even starting! my theme this weekend. Since the theme is due the following Friday, I try to snatch a few minutes here and there during the week to write, but with no success. Every night before I go to sleep I mull over in my mind a list of possible titles. Occasionally I strike upon a good one for at lea-xt I think so at the timel. but by morning it has so completely vanished from mv mind that r-o amount of wracking my brain will do the least bit of good, so I conclude that it was probably a sour grape anyway. Well, all this is getting me nowhere. and two days before the thina is due I begin to have qualms. I simply must think of a titlel Of course. there are rather serious essays, which I could write, but they do not appeal to me: at character sketches I am positively impossible: and the writing of poetrv doesn't interest me in the least. So I decide that it must be a short storv. Now, should it be sad. serious, dramatic. humorous. or adventurous? After having some fierce arguments with myself and pointing out the good and bad points of each, I finally decide upon an adventure story. Time marches on, but it seems to me that it is doing a quick step. It is now the day before the blasted thing is due. This adventure story-where should it take place? Hav- ing read several romantic stories about pirates and eighteenth-centurv sailing vessels, I decide that the sea offers the ideal setting. However, when I make a mental survey of mv vocabulary of nautical terms, I find it is sadly lacking, and I realize that the words which would issue from the lips of my seafarina hero and villain would be the height of incon- frruity. Next. I turn my attention to the Wild West and cowboys. Since I have seen more horse operas than sea pictures, I am better acquainted with the language of cow- punchers than with that of old salts. At last I decide that this is the field for me to write in. Having hit upon this perfectly marvelous idea. I rush up to my desk to write before the thought gets cold, only to discover that my desk is cluttered with books and papers and several miscellaneous articles that one does not ordinarily find upon a desk. After clearing it off in a slipshod manner I discover that all of my pencils and papers are downstairs. Finding these is a task in itself. but after a careful search through all my books I finally find them in the pantry where I left them when I went there after a snack. By this time I realize that I am hungry again: therefore I take a little lunch upstairs with me. Now I am ready to do this iob the way it should be done. I write busily for approxi- mately thirty minutes when I too vigorously put a period at the end of a sentence, break a pencil, and have to get up to sharpen it. Mom hears me stirring around and decides that I had better come down and set the table for supper. I accept my sad fate with the air of a martyr, but after supper I wangle an excuse from the dishes and start composing again. Writing merrily along and living the parts of my characters, I suddenly without the slightest Page Sixty-Four

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AN IMPORTANT ERRAND Underneath a ragged sweater one small heart beat wildly. Two adoring brown eyes followed a human dynamo of silver and blue as it rocketed from one end of the field to the other. One noisy voice added a discord to the enthusiastic cheering section as the dynamo battled his way through all opposition to score touchdown after touchdown. The same eyes were blind to the fact that his hero had just fumbled a pass. How could the wonderful Peters be wrong? The half: Here, boy, willya take this towel out ta Peters? Well, the half'll be over before ya get startedl Say, willya look at that kid go? He looked kinda dazed for a minute. Two short legs scurried out onto the field. One freckled face was alight. Wasn't the owner of those freckles well aware that he was followed by the envious glances of those who stayed behind? Wasn't one small brain busy reflecting on the glory to be his when he got home? Peters was in deep conference. when a slight, quavering voice suddenly reached his consciousness. The heart beat more widly as the god turned around. Thanks, kid. The sound of his voice made the turbulent heart turn a complete somersault beneath the old red sweater. Back again with friends and buddies the worshipper found himself almost the wor- shipped. He had served their god and in their estimation and his own had helped a great deal toward winning the game. Nancy Williams. '41 SPRING When the hard cold ground gets mellow. And the maple sap runs fast: When you hear the bull-frog's bellow. Well, spring has come at last. When hepaticas peep from the dead brown leaves, And the north-bound geese go past: When swallows murmur about the eaves, Then spring has come at last. lt's all very well to delight in snow And the cold wind's icy blast, But l've been thinkin': and do you know I'm glad spring's come at lastl Patrick Manning. '39 Page Sixty-Six