Bourne High School - Canal Currents Yearbook (Bourne, MA)

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CANAL CURRENTS 17 MY CHANGING LITERARY TASTES It is a known fact that everybody’s literary taste changes from time to time as does their age. You wouldn’t expect a man of fifty years to be reading nursery rhymes or simple adventure stories such as those found in boys’ magazines, nor would you expect a boy of eleven to be reading Shakes- peare or Milton. It stands to reason that a person’s literary taste turns toward deeper and more intense volumes which would be of more interest to him as he grows older. To make myself clearer I will illustrate, using myself as an example. I but faintly remember the days when I had to be read to so I will start at about the age of six when I entered school. At this age animal stories were the best liked simply because they were the books from which we learned to read. These stories gradually faded away and hero stories took theii place. Heroes such as Daniel Boone, Buffalo Bill, Abe Lin- coln, George Washington and others were held in great es - teem in my estimation. These heroes often became a source of inspiration, and will never be forgotten. The next step up the literary ladder finds me enjoying outdoor and adventure stories such as those found in boys’ magazines and series books. These gradually faded away and gave rise to the descriptive novels of Zane Grey and Cooper and a little later the phraseology of “Moby Dick”, by Herman Melville, and books by Poe and Dickens, attracted me. I never did express any love for poetry though I did find romance in Tennyson and some in Milton. I liked especially well Milton’s “11 Penseroso”. And now m.y taste is turning toward books of the sea such as those of Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall. Per- haps this is just another change in my literary taste which all people go through, but I think it is more likely because of the fact that all my ancestors were sea faring men, for I know a great many people who are not the least bit interested in sea adventures. Where my literary taste will turn next is a question which I can not answer. Robert Harris, ’38.

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WITCHES Witches? “Fiddlesticks” is the word that our modern civilization applies to these eerie and mysterious creatures. But, — let us turn back the pages of time to a period known to the historical world as the Elizabethan Age. When the sun began to sink behind the high Scottish mountains, and the watchful shepherd had called his flocks to their protecting corrals, doors were bolted and all the win- dows were shut tightly in each peasant’s thatched-roof dwel- ling. Children scampered to their beds and quickly pulled the covers over their heads. Travelers, walking along lonesome and dark roads, cast nervous and cautious glances at every shadow and vague object that appeared before them. Grasp- ing their heavy staffs tighter, they quickened their steps and hurried to their destinations. The cause of all this commotion? Witches, of course. Hideous creatures appearing in the forms of old women, who were evil and ugly, with a potential hate for all human be- ings. Capable of any wrongdoing, they were believed to carry off children to their desolate caves, where they first cooked them in huge pots before devouring them with considerable relish. The majority of the population of this age believed in and feared them. — Flashing back to our present skeptical era, where men are men and witches are fables, we hear more “Fiddlesticks”, and with a shrug of shoulders the thought is dismissed from our minds. Still, when the sun has long disappeared on the distant horizon and the moon begins to peep out from behind a dark cloud with a misty, golden glow, I beg of you to heed my ad- vice for “You’d better be good or the witches will get you.” Walter Young, ’37.

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18 CANAL CURRENTS ADRIFT ON THE RIVER As I neared the water I was struck by the smell and the log. The former was a combination of the misty, low-lying odor of mud-flats and the sharp acrid smell of decomposing life. The fog rose from the river as if the ghosts of the dead were here on convention, each with its own ever changing shape and size. Rowing away from the bank, I was soon enveloped in this solid blanket. The only objects to be seen were the muddy water around the boat, and the mist in front of me. The very quietness of the place gave me a sense of impending evil — as if the fog were hiding some noiseless engine of destruc- tion. As I neared the middle of the river, the sound of life was apparent: cries of boatmen, people giving orders, quarrels, the sound of machinery, all came from nowhere, half-muffled by the mist. As I neared the opposite bank, the sound of rush- ing water, like the drops of moisture dripping from under leaves, the ghostly death rattle of pebbles along the shore, all filled my soul with a nameless dread of things unseen yet heard and felt. After I had crossed the foggy inland river, teeming with the commerce of a great nation, I felt, in my imagination, as if I had crossed the river Styx, with the twirling mists, lost souls; the sounds, the pleadings of bodiless people about to enter a world of unreality and brightness; the quietness, the decade of suspense before a soul is judged. Phillip Neal, ’38. THE DEATH OF PORTIA S FATHER “Portia, Portia,” the feeble voice raised a bit higher. It came from the next room. “Yes father, I am coming,” announced Portia as she quietly glided into the sick room. The strained voice continued, “Portia, the time has come when your poor old father must depart. My time is limited. Listen now, for I have something of importance to tell you.” Portia’s face turned deathly pale. “Father,” she cried running toward him. “It can not be, oh, it can not be. The doctor promised you would get well. You can not leave me.”