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

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School Turning The Tables Dashing Pete Johnson, in buoyant good humor over the great success his tour through the small western town was creating, smiled admiringly at the surrounding plains as he sped along in his yellow roadster. Yes, little did the admiring public know that the wild bronc he stuck on for a record time was Glitter Pictures Studio’s trained horse, or that all his other astounding feats were just used to insure his position as Box Office No. 1 Favorite. Now his pale blue eyes set in his too-handsome face kept smooth by Lady Abigail’s Cream” noticed a group of tall, lean men in faded, blue jeans and bright, plaid shirts arguing over a herd of cattle near the fence which bordered the highway. He sensed their problem was how to get the cattle from one side of the highway into the plain on the other side. Stopping his car, he went up to them and said gallantly, I believe, my good men. that I can solve your problem for you very easily. With your permission I’ll take the cattle across the highway myself.” Dumbfounded they looked at him and one of them, the big one who had led the argument drawled out, Reckon you have our permission, Mr. Johnson, if you’re goin’ to be so kind!” So Pete led the cattle down to the gate; fumbled with the lock; stopped a line of cars as the herd milled across the highway; fumbled again with the other lock; then turned back to the half-smiling group of men. With a despairing look at his soiled hands, but with the comforting thought of his boosted popularity, he addressed them. You’re entirely welcome, gentlemen. Not a word now! The task was nothing to me. Adios!” We sure are grateful, sir,” the big fellow yelled after him. As he sped on his way again he heard the hearty laughter behind him and he also chuckled to himself. Poor bunch of dudes, stuck with the problem of taking a herd of cattle from one pasture to another across the highway! Guess he showed them w hat kind of a cattle man he was! As the Bar-X cowboys climbed on their horses to ride home, one of them, with eyes still brimming full of laughter, said to the chap Mr. Johnson had conversed wdth, the foreman, Well, Bill! he certainly solved our argument as to whose turn it w as to lead the cattle down through the underpass!” Jean Matheson, ’42 The Great Divide Last summer, returning from Montana, we stopped high in the Rockies to view the Great Divide”. That is, the actual place where the waters part — some to flow into the Pacific, the others into the large rivers — the Missouri, the Mississippi and their tributaries, and finally into the Atlantic. It is a won- derful spot — so symbolic of . . . well, just something. Bill, our westerner friend, told us a story about the Great Divide. I don’t know yet whether or not it is true, but I like to think that it is. It was about a century ago w hen my dad was only a boy, perhaps ten or eleven. Dad would tell me how they used to come here, his dad, my grandpa, and my dad and w atch the sunset sometimes. My grandpa had a great love for beauty, even if he w ' ere a rough and tumble gold miner. Maybe chat’s why he w anted gold — to give my grandma beautiful things. Well, anyway, they used to w atch the sunset. One evening they w ere Page Twenty- four

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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

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School sitting here, it being the highest point in the rockies, and everything was still, awful in its stillness. Then, dad said, he saw the skies actually open up with their beauty. And the reds and golds and purples changed for one brief instant to form a picture — a beautiful one — of God and His kingdom. It was dad’s vision of Utopia — a place where everyone was happy — where everyone was on an equal basis with the other — where there were no individual countries, no classes, socially or financially. It was dad’s vision of what he wanted this country — our country — to be. It seemed to him that God had given everyone so much beauty to be thankful for, so much kindness and love that they ought to be happy. But they were not. They were taking too much beauty for granted. They were so controlled by hate and greed and pride that they were unable to see past those things into the beauty of the world.” Then he stopped talking. I guess all of a sudden he came down to earth and realized that he was talking to some of those same people. Those con- trolled by hate and greed and pride. And I think he was hurt, because he loved that story so. And I sort of feel that he felt he was somehow wronging that story, telling it to us. Phyllis Stockley, ’41 A Matter Of Life Or Death It was a bright July morning when Koro, my guide, and I left for the interior of the great South American jungle. As we paddled down stream, we noticed sleek, gray forms slide from the bank into the water. These croco- diles swam under and around the boat a few times and then let us pass un- molested. Farther down the river we were suddenly aware of a great splashing around the bend. A gigantic white man was astride a crocodile, plunging his knife again and again into the slimy beast. The crocodile finally gave in Then the giant white figure lifted the crocodile from the water onto the bank and began to skin the animal of its hide. We were watching him unnoticed, when a large, slippery python reached down from the trees and began to strangle him. Quick as a flash, I drew my rifle to my shoulder and took care- ful aim. After this had blown the reptile’s head off, we paddled to shore and untangled the large figure. While we bandaged his wounds he told us that he had escaped from Devil’s Island. After hearing his story, I felt that it was my duty to take him back to civilization for a fair trial. At first he protested against leaving the jungle, but then he promised to come because I had saved his life. Before taking him back we were going to get at least one black panther. After traveling for two days we came to the hills where the panthers abided. The prisoner told us stories of the panthers and wished to come with us, so we granted him that wish. Early the next morning we started out into the hills. Koro was on the trail of a panther; he sniffed the air and then the ground and beckoned us to follow. Ahead was a large black panther waiting to spring on us. As we rounded the bend, he sprang, but Koro drew his machete and slashed the animal to death in mid-air. It came down in a heap on top of Koro, knocking him unconscious. While tending to Koro’s wounds, 1 was aware of a whirring sound behind me and turned to see the mate of the dead panther, which was almost twice as large, spring from a tree straight Page TiL’e7tty-five