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

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School iLirneJ angrily around and asked me why I was listening. The answer,” I said, you know the answer to that problem. ” Before I knew it, I was whirled away, and the next thing I knew, I was in a sombre building surrounded by whispering people. I was brought before a judge, and my trial commenced. The customer claimed I was a spy and, whispering, he said, ignorant ’, and the proof was that I hadn’t given the password — the answer to the problem. A dreadful silence fell and all eyes were upon me. I looked for familiar faces, and in the further corner of the room I saw my cousin and other relativ s. They all were looking at me sorrowfully and almost accusingly. The judge was delivering my sentence. At his words, a young child was brought forth who scornfully came up to me — What’s the problem?” he asked. If Fred works . . . how many days does Joe work?” I repeated from memory. And glibly, with his scornful eyes still on me he stated the answer — 5 days at Sl.OO a day.” Now,” said the judge, we have no place for the ignorant — take her away! ” I was home again, and I put my hand to my face. It was burning. A child shall lead them” — anyway, I have got the answer! Isabel Handy, ’41. Light Or Darkness He stared long and hard at the picture. His whole life depended on how he interpreted this very painting. He had wandered in here while looking aimlessly for an answer to his questions: — Is there anything to live for? — Why prolong agony? — How can I rise under the weight of my despair ' Just gazing at The End of the Trail”, which portrayed a wearied horse and its exhausted rider, with heads bowed, made his own shoulders sag — It is easier to give in,” he said, half aloud. He sat down in a corner over which a shadow was cast by a nearby statue. As he sat there meditating thus, a young fellow stepped into the light that fell about the picture. Just as the man had done before him, the youth stood long before the painting. He, however, stood erect, and his neat but aged suit was as confidently worn as if it were royal purple. He was weighing a problem also, thought the man, for the muscles of his young face seemed as if he were struggling with something greater even than he himself had been. Girl,” he heard the boy murmur, Girl, I have lost you.” The youth’s eyes dwelt on the pitiful figures before him. But, somehow, you seem to be telling me something. As this Indian has fought his battle with all the strength he had in him, so will I see it through. My battle is only half fought. I’m not physically spent — I am strong.” He turned, and a new light shone in his eyes. The man in the corner stirred. He suddenly didn’t feel old or tired any more. The burden he had thought too much for him seemed light and in- significant. Perhaps I am mistaken, for certainly this lad read inspiration and not defeat into that painting.” He was ashamed of his former coward- liness. He couldn’t afford to die — he hadn’t achieved anything yet. He hadn’t done the best he knew how. He hadn’t given his all, as the Indians must have done. He straightened his shoulders. Stepping out in ' o the daylight, he felt that the world was suddenly very bright. Isabel Handy, ’41 Page Ttventy-onc

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School The Peach Orchard It was a grey, misty day .in late May, just such a day as is common in this month here in the lowlands of Georgia. The steaming swamp gave the im- pression of a vast, grey sea, and here and there some huge old tree, hung with Spanish moss, loomed out of the mist like a giant ghost. The air was quite chilly for so late in spring and I stood on the porch steps wdth a sweater about my shoulders. My mood was that of deepest de- jection. The whole day had been full of disappointments, and the lachrymose weather saddened me even more. As I stood there, filled with bitter thoughts, the trees across from me suddenly gleamed with a strange light. I realized that if I went around the corner to the west side of the house I would see so beautiful a sunset as is rare at the close of so wet a day as this had been. But I did not count on see- ing the glorious sight that met my eyes as I rounded the corner. The setting sun shed its red rays on the huge peach orchard which stretched for many acres out toward the bay. The trees had just recently burst into full bloom, and the soft pink of their blossoms was further enhanced by the light of the fiery ball. The bright green of the tender, new leaves was deepened, and the on the topmost bough of a tall tree near me perched one of the brightest and largest blue jays I have ever seen. Every time he moved the sun would glint on his smooth, wet feathers, changing him to silver for one magic moment. But when I looked again he was once more that bright intense blue. And as I gazed on the transformation of the plain peach orchard, drink- ing in all its blinding, exquisite loveliness, all care dropped from my shoulders. 1 knew that, in truth, spring had come to an eagerly waiting world, and once ligain my heart sang with God’s greatest blessing, Hope”. Dorothy Dixon, ’43 Take The Next Five Problems For Tomorrow I just couldn’t figure it out. I read the problem through again, but it became a hopeless jumble of facts and figures with no solution. Wearily, I lifted my head and stared at the clock. Ten minutes had gone by, but it had seemed more like ten hours! Equations whirling through my mind were con- flicting with thoughts of my visit to Westbrook to see my cousin, on the morrow. I thought of opening the window to circulate a little fresh air; per- haps that would help. I glanced at the assignment paper and the empty space where the twelfth example should be haunted me. The problem itself began to assume an idiotic proportion and daunted me, dancing before my eyes. The window,” I murmured dazedly, 1 must open it.” I was in a familiar place — it seemed surprisingly like Westbrook. Why, yes, 1 was on Elm Street,” and I ran into my Uncle’s Drug Store, hoping to find him there. Unfortunately, he wasn’t; but Doug, the Soda Jerk”, grinned a greeting at me. A strawberry soda, Doug, please.” To my great surprise, Doug leaned over the counter and reeled off the well known words of that dreadful math problem. What’s the answer?” he asked. I shook my head. No rnswer, no soda,” he said, sorrowfully. He turned to another customer who instantly began to give the answer to the same question. Dazed, but interested, J tried to hear the customer’s words, moving closer to hear. The customer Page Ticenty

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C ANAL Currents, Bourne High School Flotsam Castle I am Flotsam Castle — at least I am the spirit of it and what good is any- thing, anything, without a spirit ? I have been standing here for years — hundreds of them — how many I do not know. They picked me up as flot- sam in the first place — merely pieces of ships’ wreckage. Every part of me has a story to tell — each story different from the other — each one a story of terror and strife, pain and heartbreak. Of shipwrecks and earthquakes, storms and glaciers. Here is the story of one of my beams who told me it when he first came to be part of me: — It was a warm night in the southern Pacific Ocean, but one of those ominous nights that speak of danger. I was part of a small boat — only a small excursion ship carrying people of so many different kinds — Americans, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Spanish, even Hawaiians. There was a fire in the engine room — a lurking fire that seemed to have control of every part of the ship before it was even discovered. I was even burnt a little. See, I’m still a little charcoaled. There was such terror there — so many people with so many stories — so many hearts saying a silent goodbye to those they were leav- ing behind — so many broken hearts left behind. That is only a part of the story — I wish I had time for more. Every part of my structure is filled with such stories. But rest in peace — I shall not re- vive any more of these memories — they are too near my own heart. Phyllis Stockley, ’4 1 The Story Of A Room I am a young man of twenty; a writer, in fact. I spend practically all of my time in a room — one room in which I eat, sleep, dress, bathe, and write. My room is an unusual on e as far as location goes. It is on the third floor of a mansion in the outskirts of a great city. From the set of windows on the south I can see a beautiful river flow- ing through a cut in the moss-covered valley where the trout fishermen come for a season of solitude. From the three windows in the west I can always see the sun as it is set- ting over the roof-tops of a dark, dank prison. I can see the cars coming and going in great numbers and the less dangerous convicts tilling the fields which smell of the rich, freshly-turned earth. Then, on the north and east sides, I see only the walls of my room which are covered with a dark, pine paneling. My room is very dark in one corner, so I have placed a small table there with a chair, and have set it off with a curtain so that when I am writing something sad I can work in this corner and gather my inspiration from it. Or I can go to the window and look at the prison and just imagine that I am one of its uncomfortable inmates. On the other hand when I write of gladness and joy I have only to go to the view of the river with its beautiful scenery in the background to be- come deeply inspired. My room contains no elaborate furniture, just a large table, a cot-bed, and a few chairs. But 1 have learned to love it because it has been my only Page Tiventy-two