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

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School T ribute America! — the land where the pilgrims roamed, the land of the brave and the strong, the land I call home — I pay tribute to you. Oh, land of the free, you gave us libeny! Here, we live in a democracy never before sur- passed, where we may live in happiness and prosperity. Over there reigns dictatorship, the most despised of governments. Over there are the bleak, desolate, war-torn countries of horror and continuous fear. Let us bow our heads in prayer, that we may be able to keep our country thus. Pray that we may be able to protect our spacious fields, our great farm- lands, our prosperous cities, our magnificent bridges, but most of all, pray that we may be able to keep our country free from dictatorship; that we may retain our freedom, and our democracy. What matter our great cities or our expansive west, if we cannot be free? What is the good of schools or institutions if we must learn only things con- cerned with warfare? What good is a country, if we cannot worship and speak as we please? Oh, America, land of justice, I salute you and I pray to God that you shall thus remain forever; that our government shall continue to be for the people, by the people, and of the people”! Cora Gay, ’42 Up, up into the darkness Go the silver beams of the huge searchlights. Like translucent needles. Trying to pierce the velvet cloak of eternity. They move lightly over the blackness. Pointing out the choice jewels that adorn it. Suddenly one diamond, brighter than the rest. Starts skimming across the infinite spaces. Gropingly the great white fingers search for it. While it ducks and doubles back. Trying to elude its silvery pursuers. But finally these clever hunters find their prey And gloatingly close in around it. In the pool of light that they make We see the diamond is an airplane, not a floating star; In the deep silence we hear the drone of its motor. I turn to you and say, How beautiful it is!” But suddenly I remember that this is practice for war, Practice in order that killing will be easier. And then I hate the icy shafts Pointing up into the cold sky; They search my heart. For they may some day point at you. Dorothy Dixon, ’43 Page Twelve

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School Patriotism In The Schools In these uncertain times it is heartening to note that Bourne High School has passed an unvoiced law providing that the student body learn about the deep meaning of Patriotism. In accordance with this, each morning the American flag is raised to the stirring notes of a trumpet, while every student stands alert and at attention until the ceremony is over. It would be a fine thing if every one realized the real meaning of patriot- ism. Some students may ask just why should we be patriotic. Well, in the first place, take America as a whole. Isn’t it a wonderful nation? — no es- tablished religion; freedom of religious worship, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, no right of search of a man’s home with- out warrant from a court of law, when accused of a crime the right to a speedy, public, and impartial trial, coupled with the right to confront wit- nesses for the defense. That alone should cause us to respect and revere America. In the sec- ond place, just think of everything the dictators have taken away and that Americans prize, — liberty, peace, and individual freedom. If every school in the United States would stress this idea in its curri- culum just as Bourne High is doing, for at least a year, I am sure that every boy and girl in the nation would realize how great a country America really is. Youth has been apt to take too much for granted and not appreciate fully w ' hat it has. A good way to go about this instructive training is to make it as pleasant as possible. The Junior Class Advisers of Bourne High School are doing this by having the Junior class members construct their annual magazine, Ca ial Currents, along the theme of American Patriotism. Cora Gay, ’42 Pause For Prayer As I was walking home from choir practice, a most unusual window display caught my eye. It wasn’t exactly an advertisement, but it had to do with the w ar that is being fought abroad. It showed a miniature setting of the destruction; small houses, tall build- ings. streets — all were badly ruined. Somewhere, hidden under these build- ings. chemicals were used to show clouds of smoke here and there, making it the most life-like scene I have ever observed. Tiny mechanical people were scrambling about, seeking refuge in the make-believe bomb shelters. From the outside it was rather faint, but if you listened carefully, you could almost hear the screeching of the bombs as they fell from a flat compartment overhead. At the very top of the window, there were images of terrified children’.s faces grouped around a sign w hich read, We need your help, America.” This made a very queer impression on my mind — for I noticed, instead of people talking, or exclaiming loudly to their companions to look at the display, there was no real excitement, but only a hushed silence, as we all watched the miniature war. Page Eleven Celeste Vercellone, ’4l

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LITERARY Refugee The buds were just starting to open on that beautiful May morning in 1926 when I was born. I was named Tassie, for my great-grandmother. I re- member looking at her picture, which hung in the front hall. She was a tall, stately lady with a too-firm chin and kind grey eyes. I was only seven then, but it pleased me to note that my eyes were grey too. Our home was in the residential section of London, and I think the thing that I remember most is the green lawn. All the lawns were such a beau- tiful, velvety green. How could I foresee the time when all these lawns would be nothing except a muddy, soggy hole. Once I asked our gardener why the lawns were so green. Well, now. Miss Tassie,” he said, All you have to do is to keep mowing them, watering them, and pressing them down for a few centuries and you’ll have a lawn just like we have now.” I was very ' deeply impressed by this statement, although I was only eight years old at the time. I never went to a public school, for my governess was a capable in- structor. On my tenth birthday people were beginning to talk about some person named Hitler. I asked Cook about him, but she said not to bother her when she was preparing dinner. On my thirteenth birthday Hitler was no longer an insignificant madman and on September 2, 1940, I was put on a boat headed for America — too bewildered even to cry, when I saw father and mother fading into the mist on the dock. I am going to stay in New York, but I know I won’t like it. Mother said there are no green lawns in New York. Justine Cassels, ’41. Dear America, America, 1940. Out of the dark, and into the light. Yes, dear reader, a rather funny way to begin a letter, isn’t it? Now you might be interested to know who J am. Back in the days when people worked and struggled to make a living, when there were no revolts, bombs, or warfare — that’s when I first realized the meaning of peace. You see, I am an old peasant now, born and brought up in Italy. I have always led a very simple life — as a matter of course, there being no other life to lead. One had little time to think of the future, and what one did think of was for the benefit of the family as a whole. My family and I were happy, though, just being together. When I went to school, I was very fond of writing letters — not just let- ters, but som.e that had stories to them. This is why I am writing to you, dear America. That is why — because I want you to know me as well as 1 know you. You are the beginning of a new life for me — one that will be different from that in the past. You do know why I am here? There is nothing wrong with my country — the one I once knew. Please don’t ask me about the new. I really know many things about my old” country — many beautiful things. All I want now is to carry peace in my heart, for the rest of my life — • I know I can. Please help me, America. Lovingly yours. Celeste Vercellone, ’4l. Page Thirteen