Bristol High School - Green and White Yearbook (Bristol, RI)

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8 THE GREEN AND WHITE stood there haggard and worn, the same blue eyes, the same soft brown hair which had been carelessly blown about by the wind. Perhaps it was a vision sent to give her new hope for she had often seen them. They both advanced as if walking in a nightmare. Suddenly he clasped her in his arms and uttered, “Marlene, I have found you, I have found you. No more waiting, no more hoping for tomorrow.” She was his, now and forever. He knew now that he wasn’t mistaken because she too was calling him by name, saying, “And all these years I have kept up just as you asked me to. 1 have toiled long nights, even when I doubted. But there was always a new light in the morning. I knew you would come, Noel, as you said you would.” While they stood together, the fair young child with a head of golden curls stepped into the scene. They knelt and she hugged them close. This was his little daughter whom he had never seen. She was born two weeks after he had left for the war. The war was the destruction of eight years of his life. Now all was over, for the hands of fate had thrown them together just when each was about to give up the struggle. His little home and wife and child were all his now. She had kept them for him, for she knew some day he would come, and he did. Even though the war had caused the loss of his memory, that head of shining curls brought it back. The day was far spent and the evening shadows had fallen but the sun had not yet set. The three were tired, for the day had been one of rejoicing and reconciliation, while the past had been forgotten. The sun slowly sank beyond the horizon taking away all the miseries and memories. The breeze played with the trees and the bubbling brook still flowed over the mossy rocks. The valley over which the rising sun had looked so sadly would soon be transformed for the sunrise was to bring with it a real, everlasting Tomorrow. ANNE ROHRMAN, ’32. “Advertisers Make This Hook Possible” “WHY?” Why do we laugh, why do we crv? Why do we pine, why do we sigh? Why do we want so many things? Why are we gay, why do we sing? Why does this world go round so fast? Why don't beautiful things last? Why does the sun shine, why does it rain? Why are our hearts so full of pain? Why do we live, whv do we die? I wrote this—I wonder why? ELLA MAE LEMATRE, ’31. “Advertisers Make Tills Hook Possible” Mr. Miller (addressing class): “Milk contains many materials. If any of you people would like to find out more about milk you can ask Mr. Walker.” Miss Romano: “Why, does he own a farm?” Mr. Miller: “No. Miss Romano, but he teaches agriculture.” A PROPOSAL Verily I say unto you, fellow-sufferers, the time for deliberation and argumentation is passed and the moment for action is at hand. Yea. too long have we endured meekly and without protest the caprices of this gay and giddy teacher. Too long have we attempted to convince her that we are not marked descendants of Longfellow, nor yet of Poe. But in vain! ’Tvvas all for naught! For it came to pass, in the happy days of sentence construction and classic readings, our English teacher—traitor that she is to class peace and tranquility—broke the usual routine by demanding from each and every one of us a theme! Naturally resenting this sudden trend of affairs, and to discourage any further ambition on the part of the teacher to make geniuses of us, we strove to concoct the most inane stories on the most impossible subjects we were able to invent. But lo! The base deceiver! The vile flatterer! She said they were wonderful, extraordinary, supreme! And—our next assignment was to write a poem! Again we smote our worthy breasts and tore hair by the handfuls from our heads, and oh ! how we did murder that so-called “poet’s license!” But there was no discouraging her. She would not be dissuaded from her evil purpose. We could think of no more cruel assignment than to write a poem, but the mischievous brain of that tyrant set itself to work, and the result was: an original oration. But fear not. fellow-sufferers, be not dismayed; be strong and of good courage— “for behold! I bring unto you good tidings of great joy.” I have had a “Strange Interlude,” during which the spirit entered in and spake with me and said unto me that which I am about to tell you. Fellow-sufferers, we are in our last extremity. All methods have failed us in this affair. Something must be done immediately or our English teacher will succeed in making writers of us. Therefore, with this thought in mind, and as our last hope and resource, I propose that we assemble a delegation to go to the house of our heartless teacher and “tell her mother on her!” MARJORIE LOIS MANLEY, ’32. “Advertisers Make Tills Hook Possible” MYSELF I wat to be good. I want to be brave, I want to face the world and not be afraid. I want to go with mv head erect. I want to deserve all men’s respect. I know it is hard work and not all play. I am ready to change my course today, Whatever happens. I want to be Self-respecting and conscience free. ALFRED DUBUC ,’33. Teacher: “When you put your hand on a hot stove a message is sent to the brain and the message that returns is—” Miss Balzano: “The message is Ouch!”

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THE GREEN AND WHITE 7 from the Budda, and floe the next morning on a boat going to the United States. Harry promised the Priest that he would take care of him in America. They entered the temple on the appointed time, prostrated themselves on the floor in front of the Budda. as if in worship, before the Holy Altar, and mumbled prayers. As it was the custom for Priest to come and worship at all times during the night, the guard did not think this performance unusual. Suddenly, the Priest and Harry sprang to their feet, seized the guard, gagged him. and doped him. The Priest then approached the ruby which seemed to glow at him. as a large eye of fire would. The Priest took hold of the ruby, and without warning, and with a terrible cry he dropped dead at the foot of the Budda. Hary drew back with horror, and fled from the temple, and was never heard of again. He had learned his lesson for being greedy. The mystery of the ruby has never been solved. It remains to this day in its place in the forehead of the Budda. ELIZABETH ROUNDS, ’31. “Advertisers Make This Book Possible” PROCRASTINATION—THE THIEF OF TIME It is a well known fact that there are sixty seconds in a minute and sixty minutes in an hour and every second, minute and hour is essential to make a day, a week or a year. Surely students in high school have learned this scale of time; yet why do so many high school students fail at college? There are many thousands of students attending medical schools in this country, but more than twenty per cent fail to graduate. Yes, even high school honor students fail Is it that they are not intelligent enough? No! Nine-tenth of the high school students of today are still tied to their mother's apron-strings” and do not know the value of time. Many haven’t even any initiative about them. Almost all high school students who have to leave home to attend college have not yet learned the art of utlizing their spare time. I say “art for it is art if one has acauired a schedule for one’s spare time. It would be an “art of Utopianism” to make one schedule suitable for everyone; this is where Procrastination plays the leading role. The upper classmen play “Big Brother” to the new comers and make a schedule of their days, making sure thev have the proper diversion from study. The new comers become too proud and let things “slide.” The new comers are soon indulging in the three Ds—namely: Dates, Dancing and Drinking, when they should be studying. They fail—and Procrastination continues deluding joy. HILTON LEVY Advertisers l»ke Tills Bonk Possible” Editor’s note: “It’s rumored that John Elynn. fr., is to succeed Mr. Fitzgerald as football coach.” THE GOLDEN THREADS OF LIGHT In a little sheltered valley in Switzerland stood a little clay hut. The valley was a gay vet a tragic looking spot, dotted here and there with sheep and cattle. On one side a gleaming little brook ran and bubbled over the mossy rocks, and the branches of the trees swayed lazily with the breeze while the mellow rays of the sun danced through it all. Here was a bit of paradise in a little valley. As the traveler Stood on the summit of the hill, a strange sensation awoke in him. This place, this little bit of paradise seemed to him as if he had seen it somewhere before. But he could not remember. It seemed long ago, yet he was not an old man. He rode down into the valley and each step became more and more familiar. A strange thing about this traveler was that he could not remember what happened on the days that passed. He didn’t even know who he was. But someone, somewhere had pinned a medal on him which meant nothing because he didn’t know what it was for. Day after day he had been riding through this land of beautiful snow covered mountains and silvery lakes; night after night he had slept under the stars because he had nowhere to go; yet, if anyone asked him where he was going he would reply that he would reach ther«' tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went and still he had not reached his destination. Today he felt that the real tomorrow was at hand. As he neared the hut, he could see the shining curls of a girl about eight years old. She was watching him with a strange look in her eves, and he stared back in that same way. That hair and those eyes, that face: where, oh where had he seen them? Was it? No, yet he could not remember. He got off his horse and walked up to her. She had risen and was making for the door when he said. “Child, please don’t run away from me; I’d like some water; I have come a long way and would rest awhile.” She turned shyly and looked steadih- at him to see if he were telling the truth. Then she said, “Well. then, you must come in and ask my mother.” At this she turned and entered the house. He pulled the reins front his horse, let him graze and began to follow her How that face haunted him. He knew he had seen it somewhere before. Mechanically he wlaked into the hut. and the sight that met his eyes opened a new world to him. A world of doubt, misfortune and hope was slowlv turning into happiness like the pot of gold found at the end of the Rainbow. The hut was furnished crudely but comfortably. Braided rugs covered the floors and things were clean and neat. The scent of fresh cut flowers filled the room. At the further etid of this room stood a woman, beautiful beyond compare and yet her face showed traces of burning tears. The morning sun set her aglow as its rays danced through the golden curls. He saw her now as he had seen her before. The light that gave him hope during his long nights of agony and pain. The nights that he was trying to remember was all in her hair. She looked upon him too as he stood at the door. Could it be? No, he was dead, and died bravely; hadn’t they told her so? Wasn't be among the men who never come back? Yet he

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9 THE (iREEN AND WHITE BRAVERY “Jean.” It was Mrs. La Farge talking. “Yes, mother,” answered her 15 years old daughter. , “Jean, I’m going over to grandmother s tor a while and I don't want to leave the house alone because I’m not sure what time your lather will be returning. You don’t mind staying here, do you?” Why, of course not, mother,” answered Jean. “Why should I be afraid? I’ve got an awfully interesting book here. Dot read it and she said that it was perfect.” All right, then. I'll be home in about an hour, 1 imagine,” replied her mother as she went out of the door. Immediately scribbling a few more numbers of her Math lesson, Jean hurriedly put away the books and began preparations for a few minutes of good reading. Taking her book. “The Black Veil,” she turned out the table lamp, went over to her special armchair and turned on the reading lamp Seating herself comfortably, she began to read. Fifteen minutes passed and Jean was thoroughly absorbed in her occupation. Once or twice she glanced nervously about her but each time she returned to her reading. Ten more minutes passed and Jean, deciding that the room was too dark, arose to turn the table lamp on again. Just as she was about to sit down she heard a sudden whistling noise and then the slamming of a door. Slowly she crossed the floor and began to look around, when to her disgust she found that the wind coming through an open window in the library had cause the door right opposite to slam. “Gosh, that scared me. but it won’t any more,” said Jean as she banged the window down and return to her book. Let’s see,” she whispered to herself, “where did I leave off? Oh yes, I’ve got it. ‘The black veil slowly disappeared into the darkness. Eileen stood transfixed with horror as she heard the low warning knocks.’ Gosh this book is interesting. I bet ...” Suddenly Jean stopped. What was that noise near the window? Determinedly she threw her book aside and cautiously drew the curtains. “Oh, hang it all, what’s the matter with me anyway? Just because that loose blind starts to knock I’ve got to have the wits shaken out of me,” and once more she returned to her seat, and again resuming reading. A few minutes passed and Jean was once more under the spell of the book. “As Eileen watched Jack turn the corner two black hands reached out and grabbed her by the arms. Screaming with all her might she ...” “What on earth is the matter now?” Jean asked herself as her alert ears caught a slight scratching noise in the cellar. In about two seconds she heard a heavy crash and. this time, without stopping to wonder, she dashed up the stairs two at a time, ran to her room, and within two minutes she was in bed, the covers drawn ’way over her head. About a half hour passed before Jean, with a sigh of relief, heard her mother at the door. Mrs. LaFarge, upon entering, immediately saw the two lights burning in the library, the book laying on the floor, and the curtains slightly drawn aside. Silently but with a smile on her face she walked up the stairs, went to Jean's room, and turned on the light. “Ae you awake, Jean?” she asked. Yes, mother,” came the weak reply. “Why didn’t you turn the lights off in the library?” “Oh, I must have forgotten to; I was in an awful hurry to get to bed.” “You must have been,” laughingly replied her mother, picking up the clothes scattered all over the floor. “Did you enjoy the book?” she asked mischievously . “Sure.” “And were you afraid?” “Why. of course not, mother. Why should I have been afraid? came Jean’s brave reply, as her mother, bursting with laughter. left the room. ALICE MAGEE, ’32. IN 1963 I wish I were a master mind. The Future I would see. And so to speak, just get a peak At nineteen sixty-three. I wonder if the years from hence I’ll look the same as now; I’ll bet my hair is snowy white Above a wrinkled brow. Perhaps I won’t have any hair— It’s falling out, you know; But what of that—I'll wear a hat And pull it way down low! I suppose my teeth will all be gone And laid away to rest; A long gray beard, just what I feared, Will cover up ray vest. The cane which I shall carry Will be of solid oak, I might have two, before I’m through, By golly, it’s no joke! This time of year I’ll have the gout, Or p'raps the rheumatiz, Lumbago, or sciatica— I hate to think. Gee Whiz! My double-vision spectacles Will rest upon my nose. Which you will see and quite agree Looks “mighty like a rose.” I’ll hobble down the street each morn Just to the grocery store, When 'round the fire, (the same old liar' — I’ll tell of days of yore. That is, I hope I still can talk In nineteen sixty-three— But if I can’t, why then you’ll now What caused the death of me! FREDERICK VERA. ’31. Carlson: “I had the pleasure of going through a glass manufacturing plant where they were making whiskey bottles—don’t draw any conclusion.