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

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School Shopping With The Fairer Sex Fellows, if you w ' ant to spend about three hours in torture, go shopping with your sister when she wants to buy a new hat. How does this black one look, Ken? I take a quick glance at the hat my sister has carefully set on her head and mumble a few words of praise hoping that she will buy the bonnet so we can go home. I don’t know just which one I want, they’re all so nice.” Yes, they are very nice. Sis, but please buy one. You have tried on twenty different types now.” Oh, you’re in too much of a hurry. This is the last time you’ll come shopping with me.” Then my sister extends her hand and picks up another hat; and then I knoiv I’ll never go shopping with her again. Glancing down at my watch I note we have been in this hat shop exactly an hour and a half and there is no sign of my sister’s buying any special derby. The sales clerk brings out five more boxes: Here are some of the very latest models. Miss. I’m sure you’ll like one of these.” There is a funny glint in his eye and I know he wants to make a sale as quickly as I’d like to see one made. My sister tries on all five of them and arrives at no conclusion as to which of the twenty-five hats she wants. Please, Sis, as a personal favor to me, buy one of these hats.” But I don’t know which one I want. Shall I look at some more?” The answer to this question fairly leaps from my mouth: No, there are 25 different kinds of hats in front of you now. For gosh sakes, buy one! ' My sister glances over the lot of hats and I hope and pray she selects one of them. Her eyes linger on one special hat, so I jump at the chance I’ve been waiting two hours for. I pick up the hat and set it carefully on her head. Gee, Sis, that’s a wonderful hat. Why, it looks perfect on you.” I guess my sister must be a sucker for flattery because she falls for my gag. You know. Sis, that’s the only hat I’ve seen of this type. It looks as though it was made for you.” That statement closes the deal. My sister says the four words I’ve been waiting hours to hear. I’ll buy this one.” The clerk quickly wraps up the hat and gives it to my sister. I knov then that he is afraid she’ll change her mind! Then, as though we had rehearsed a little act, the clerk and I both wipe the sweat from our foreheads and heave a sigh of relief. Kenneth Young, ’42. Mr. Blackwell Views the Political Situation Well, Mr. Willkie does not have to feel too bad about losing because in 1944 he can vote for Mr. Roosevelt (still running) and then be on the winning side. Clarence Blackwell, ’41 Page Sixteen

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School Vignettes Of London Granny, must we go?” Yes, Sue, now take my hand and well leave.” But, Granny, all my dolls and the little kitten — where will they go? May I take them?” No, my dear. I ' hey must stay.” What if something makes the house fall in? Like over at Mary Jane s the other night. Their house fell in and she couldn’t find her rag doll. And she couldn’t find her mummy, either. Where did they all go. Granny?” Well, someone took them away. Her mummy was taken to that nice place where your mummy went last week. Now, let’s go, dear. You must be a brave little soldier.” Like my daddy is. Granny? All right. Goodbye, dollies and kitty.” Hand in hand the fine old English lady and her little granddaughter headed toward the air shelter in the heart of busy London. It has been a wonderful day, hasn’t it?” the elderly gentleman addressed his companion. It certainly has,” was the reply forced above the din that reached their ears. The marigolds are still blooming in my garden. Heartening to have something continuing in its accustomed fashion in spite of . . . various things,” finished the elderly gentleman once more. Yes, we must all keep going, no matter w hat,” came his companion’s retort once more against the clatter and confusion above them. A comfort- able silence settled neatly around them. In the dim light of one or two wicker lights throughout the place, the elderly man drew from his tossed-on overcoat a pocket knife and a little wooden boat. Just an adopted hobby of mine,” he explained to his companions seated on a rough box across from him. There were only rough boxes and some blankets in the whole place. The elderly gentleman’s snappy blue eyes set in his jovial, and nowadays patient face saw the plight of humanity well repre- sented everywhere around him. Then there was a terrific explosion near by. The old gentleman went on whittling. Jean Matheson, ’42. Father Gives Up Smoking Father came home with an announcement that astonished us all. He was going to give up smoking. We looked at him queerly and w ondered if he was all right. Mother asked him if she should call the doctor. He said, No, of course not, can’t a fellow stop smoking if he wants to?” Mother bet him a new dress that he would be smoking again in two weeks, but he said, Phooey! don’t you think I have any will power?” He did pretty well for about a week and w e were all thankful that the house w ' as free from tobacco smoke. A few nights after that, mother thought father was being unusually quiet so she crept to the door of his den and peeked in — there was father puffing on his pipe hoping no one w ' ould find him. Now father is going around with a red face and mother is sporting a new dress. Claire Jackson, ’42, Page Fifteen

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School Brotherly Love Dick Strode into the house, from an afternoon of hunting, with the same usual stride of contentment; and tossed his ducks on the kitchen table. At once Sis flared up and yelled, Get those nasty old ducks out of here, Dick, or I’ll tell Mother!” Dick laughed right out loud at her and naturally she got angrier. Why, Sis,” he exclaimed, I feel greatly hurt to think you don’t appreciate this small gift I hunted all P. M. to get for you.” Oh, you hateful brother,” she screamed, and dashed from the room. A teasing smile at once covered Dick’s face, and unwillingly he disappeared, with the ducks, out the back door. As soon as Sis cooled off,” she acquired the same gleeful tittitude, and peacefully and earnestly continued preparing dinner. When Mother and Dad had returned from the office and we all were busily eating, Dick suddenly asked to be excused as though he had forgotten something. Mother agreed and he dashed up towards his room. A few moments later he appeared and in his hand he held a neatly wrapped and tied box. Well, Sis,” he apologetically replied, I hope you’ll like this one!” and proudly pass- ed the box to her. A queer, puzzling smile lighted her face, and, thanking him, she opened the package. Within the wrappings she beheld a costly 5 pound box of chocolates. Why, Dick,” Mother at once asked, What’s come over you?” Oh, Sis will explain,” he carelessly said. Oh, Dick, you old darling! All I can say is — You’re ' Swell’!” Esther Davis, ’42 Retreat in Spring Each year as the cold white snow ' s of winter blend aw ay into spring, I drive far into the deep, dark woods af Maine to a little hamlet known as Rattlesnake Rapids. From there I go by canoe down the bounding, blue waters of the Rattlesnake River. There, shores are lined with spruce and cedar making a solid bank of dark luxuriant green, broken only by the sharply contrasting white birches, majestic and tall. There winter lenticels show as spots of black giving the impression of an ermine coat, a fitting garment for such a kingly tree. I come after a while to what appears to be but a mere crack in the luxuriant foliage so peculiar to the north. But , as I come nearer I see that it is actually a small brook barely twice as wide as the canal. After several hours of fighting airrent in that clear cold, bubbling mountain brook, the brook seems to widen out into a miniature lake, the fisherman’s, or for that matter any nature lover’s, pa adise. The lake is bounded on one side by a clearing reaching back several hundred feet. On the other sides it is bounded by maples just budding out in preparation for the summer ahead. In the distance, on the crest of Red Fox Mountain, which for my own personal rea- sons I call Mount Beautiful, the waters of my Beautiful Brook hurl themselves as if in suicide ofif the precipice onto the rocks below. I pitch my tent in the clearing and unpack my supplies. For a week I stay here fishing, resting, drinking in the beauty of my surroundings. For a week I live, and sleep, and eat with God and enjoy His clean, pure air, and drink in His bright, clean sunshine and enjoy the beauty created by Him. Then I must return, up the swiftly flowing Rattlesnake River, by modern means to an ugly, gray, cold, unattractive city which we call Modern”. But, as for me, let me live in the great outdoors, God’s masterpiece in art. Bernard Stockley, ’43 Page Seventeen