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

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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

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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 home for three long years. The only things that keep me from going crazy are my visitors and my writing. My visiting hours are from 2 to 3 P. M. be- cause I am so busy that I can’t have longer ones. I never go out of this room, even to eat. I have my meals brought to me on a tray — so you see, I am fond of the room. But, anyway, there is no way to get out of it even if I wished because the windows have steel bars and the door itself is made of steel and is locked securely from the outside. Even if I did succeed in breaking the bars there would be no way to get to the ground because the walls are smooth and there is a wdde moat full of crocodiles below. You see, I am a convict myself and the mansion in which I live has been converted into a prison. The writing I do is just for the inmates so they will have something to keep them sane in their solitary confinement. We have all been charged with murder and our sentence is — solitary confinement for the rest of our natural lives. Barbara Gardner, ’43 The Great Drama Three months since she had hit New York and still no job! Three months of planning and scheming concocted to trap managers, directors and ]. lay producers, whom Cathie finally began to think of as illusive phantoms, talked about, but never seen. Even Broadway seemed like an illusive dream to her as she climbed the stairs to her room — a cheap room and already the landlady had taken on that dubious attitude so familiar to Cathie. Cathie Benson” — how nice it would look in lights. She could see the lights at night — they kept her awake, and even when she finally drifted into exhausted sleep, the lights still taunted her. They took the form of demons torturing her with their very brightness. Catherine went into her room and closed the door. She didn’t snap on the light but went to the window. The lights were blinking already — so many lights, so many people all wanting fame. She thought suddenly that if she was famous, her name would be in the headlines — she would be front page news. She wondered if this was so much to ask. She wanted people to dis cuss her over their morning coffee. This Cathie Benson” — they would say — Now there’s a case for you” — . She stood up suddenly, switched on the light, went over to the bureau, and rummaged for a few minutes in the top drawer. She took out a diary — the diary that contained all her hopes, dreams and as- pirations. Then she sat down and wrote a note, a very short note. Tomorrow, she thought, people will be talking about the great drama — the story of Cathie Benson. She would be famous for a moment — like a shooting star — her name would be in black and white, in big letters. The diary gave her name and other necessary information. In the note she gave her reason. She threw up the window. Five stories away the sidewalks shone dimly. Cathie leaned out — the lights were blinking, beckoning. She leaned farther — and yet farther still . . . The headlines were in black and white — big letters. It ivas a great drama — for thousands of people. War Declared” — two words in the headlines. On the third page, fourth column, was a paragraph about some girl who had committed suicide the night before. It was a very short paragraph. Justine Cassels, ’41 Page Tiventy -three