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

Page 22 text:

CANAL CURRENTS, BOURNE HIGH SCHOOL Eating Your Way Into Athletics The title, ‘‘Eating your way in- to athletics”, does not mean that one must eat heavily to be a good athlete. If this were so, there would soon be a shortage of food in this country, as nearly nine out of every ten persons would like to be a good athlete. There are champions in all sports, — some men, some women, some boys, and some girls. They did not get to be champions by being the largest eaters in the world, but by following a rigid healthful diet and by training steadily. They get their bodies into shape for practice, first by living on their diet. One cannot call eating pastry a good diet just be- cause of the number of calories per day. This is just like put- ting gasoline into a car. It is soon used up. Instead, one must eat solid foods — foods that con- tain calories plus vitamins. Diet plays an important part in the makeup of an athlete; so watch your diet. Heavy eating usually results in putting on fat, and not many champions are plump. Fat is just like extra baggage. You carry this extra baggage around but don’t make any extra profit; so, get rid of your fat. Now that I’ve attempted to ex- plain the title, try it and see how it works. Tom Young, ’40. On A Tramp Steamer With our things in duffle bags we walked towards Pier 11, where tied to the dock was a small black tramp steamer, the “John Hancock”. As we went up the gangplank our coming was reported to the captain. After being shown to our cabins where we put our dun- nage under our bunks, we went out in time to see the harbor- master leaving, after giving the captain the clearance papers. Orders were given, dock hands loosed the bow and stern lines, and slowly we swung out from the dock into the dusk, bound for South America. Going to bed, after playing a few games of poker, we fell asleep rocked by the waves. The next morning was clear and was spent in exploring the ship. The days passed quickly and pleasantly. Occasionally we would sight another vessel or see fleets of fishing boats. For two days we were in a southeaster, which with rain, sleet, and wind made life almost unbearable. We spent much time those days watching the sailors whittle out things, or make small boats which they put into bottles. The eighth day out we sighted the port of Rio de Janeiro, our des- tination, and our journey was over. Kirby Hayes, ’40. Page Twenty

Page 21 text:

CANAL CURRENTS, BOURNE HIGH SCHOOL Our Living Room On Christmas Morn “Merry Christmas” is echoed from room to room, and the joy in our hearts rings out a merry peal on this frosty Christmas morn. It is no time for tears or sorrow unless one thinks that somewhere, someone is probably alone and without this wonder- ful Christmas joy that is bring- ing so much happiness to us. We utter a silent prayer for them and continue spreading our good cheer to everyone who happens to be near. The happiest moment of all is the moment when all the mem- bers of the family gather in the living room to take a part in the crowning event of the day. Gaz- ing upon the heavily laden tree with its festive air, silence pre- vails as our eyes fasten upon the shining star on the tip-top of the tree and we silently repeat the message it flickers: “Glory to God in the highest; and on earth peace and good will to- ward men.” Then a mad rush for gifts piled high under the tree and hanging from branches. Laughter and fun are predomin- ant and the living-room is filled with Santas — the joy of giving and then of receiving. There is a scrambling and tearing of gaily covered boxes and the noise of many toys. Everyone is hap- py. Soon the room is empty. Emp- ty of its merriness and cheer. Bits of festive paper and string are strewn about and decora- tions have been torn from the tree in some manner or other. Still glimmers the star with a weary light, but one that shines of hope and love and faith. No, Christmas isn’t just that happy moment of giving and receiving, its message lives throughout the year to come. “Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth, peace, and good will toward men.” Isabel Handy, ’41. My Ideal Of A Home “Home is where the heart is. Peace is where the home is.” My house will not be just a house to me, it will be home and peace. A home is not just a house with four walls, a roof, and a few rooms and windows, not a place where to eat and sleep, but something far more than that. I have read some- where that a man’s home is his sanctuary. This is a very true statement or should be. Very elaborate houses have been built for millions of dollars, but homes are not measured in dollars, or size and shape. Home to me spells peace, happiness, content- ment, and above all, love. My house will not be large in a ma- terial way, but will hold all the joy and love that can be imag- ined. My home will be founded upon love, not marble, and is not love more enduring than any material substance? I hope that my home will be a realization of these ideals. Theda Walker, ’41. Page Nineteen

Page 23 text:

CANAL CURRENTS, BOURNE HIGH SCHOOL The House Of Horror It all started one mid-summer afternoon while I was on a deer hunt in the Everglades. I had in some way become separated from the party which I was with and after stumbling in miles of morass and inpenetrable jungle from mid-afternoon until dusk had begun to settle down on the swamplands, I suddenly came upon an old castle-like house on a patch of higher ground which thrust itself above the surround- ing swamp lands. As I ap- proached the higher land I noted a depressing silence which made the noise of my footsteps in the mucky swamp lands sound like a herd of cattle crossing a creek. I finally climbed out upon the dry land and stopped to listen. The silence was deafening, un- real. Not a night-bird twittered nor a cricket chirped nor (as I was suddenly aware) were there any noises from the teeming swamp where I had beforehand been annoyed by the raucous noises of all types of swamp life. As I looked up at the house with its moss and ivy-covered walls of gray stone, its dark, gaping win- dows and the huge, heavily- studded oaked door, which I could discern dimly through the gathering gloom, I had a linger- ing premonition of evil and for some unaccountable reason, the dread of something horrible within. As I stood doubtful as to what to do, I noticed a dim light flick- ering through a small window at one side of the massive door. “There must be someone there,” I said to myself, “who would perhaps give a weary traveler some food and rest.” So thinking, I made my way cautiously up to the door, my deer rifle gripped tightly in my hands. As I approached the great oaken door, I saw an iron knock- er bolted to it. This I raised and let fall. The great crash it made was magnifled highly by the de- pressing silence around me and I started foolishly when it fell, my knees then reached for the huge knocker again. Before my hand reached the knocker the door opened silently on its huge hinges and I was confronted by an elderly man who stood star- ing at me through thick-lensed glasses. He was a man of small sta- ture but of amazing breadth in comparison with his height. His shoulders were broad and pow- erful-looking, and his arms were thick with muscles which rip- pled under his khaki shirt. His back, I saw when he turned, was humped slightly and he walked with an odd, shuffling gait. His face was angular and his nose hooked. His eyes were a cold piercing blue as he looked through his thick-lensed glasses at me. At last he grinned crookedly, disclosing one tooth in the cen- ter of his mouth, and said in a harsh voice, “Come in, please, won’t you?” I hesitated as a breath of damp musty air came from the open doorway. He looked at me sharply. “Don’t let my looks and voice scare you,” he said, grinning hideously again. “They are the Page Twenty-One