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

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I am reminded of one siege of waiting during which 1 came into contact with two personalities, completely new to me. It was a warm afternoon in September. I was sitting in the waiting room with one other patient. She sat in the middle of the sofa, her lacquered finger tips tapping her hag impatiently, her knees crossed negligently—a patent shod foot jerking backward and forward. On her carefully made up face was an expression of extreme boredom. “Fortyish. and a spinster,” I decided, peering over the top of last June’s “American Rifleman.” “She probably resents anyone younger or happier than she.” This reflection was disturbed by the sudden and noisy entrance of a roughly clad man with a bandaged hand. As he came into the room he glanced quickly from Fortyish to me with' a look that seemed to invite each of us to join in some tremendous joke of which he was the center. He spread himself into an easy chair by a small table with the air ot a jovial comrade. Fortyish turned away her head and stared down her nose, and 1 withdrew my glance to the page before me. Affairs did not rest this way, for after a long period of near somnolence, the man rearranged himself noisily in his chair and exhaled a short, gusty sigh which seemed to startle the woman. Her loss of composure, however, was only momentary and she became more withdrawn than ever. The man shifted his position several times at this and Fortyish began to appear slightly annoyed. Finally, the man’s jaw dropped in a gigantic and audible yawn, and he put his hand up to pat his mouth daintily, little finger very slightly extended. The look he sent to me clearly expressed a wink. I hastily shifted my magazine to hide the grin I could not repress. Not long after this, in the next of his impatient shiftings, the man struck his elbow against the table and discovered that it had a revolving top so set it spinning, carrying the pil of magazines and the vase of flowers it held around and around. It was at about this point that I began to feel sorry for the woman, and tired of the man’s antics. “Why he’s just showing off. He is being childish.” As the table top creaked around, the woman’s fingers tightened on her handbag and her foot swung in a swift, vicious arc. The man played with this new toy for several minutes, and then apparently tiring of it. slumped back in his chair and took out his watch. Idly he began to wind it. Then, seeing how its grating noise brought a frown to mar the blase perfection of the lady on the sofa, hi:, face brightened and he began to wind it loudly and monotonously— (ink! (irrrk! Grrrk, grrrk, grrrk! Grrk! (irrrk! Grrrk. grrrk, grrrk! Then the woman’s aloof attitude completely crumbled. With a shrug of the shoulder, she scornfully sent that man such a cold, withering stare as I hope will never be directed at me. Gathering up her things she huffily departed. The man leaned forward to watch her go out the door and, slipping his watch back into his pocket, he chuckled. “She must be nervous!” he said. I dipped my head back behind the “American Rifleman” with an expression as noncommittal as possible, having just realized that I had watched and listened with an interest perhaps more than polite. I was glad when finally my turn with the doctor came. When I left the office my mind was filled with all the various characters I had seen during other long waits. Some were amusing, some pleasing, some saddening, some mystifying. In the people who have waited with me for the doctor I have seen the world. RUTH SANFORD. ’37. A REVERIE 1171 iFNHVF.R an individual is engaged in idle ” thought he will find, almost without exception. thoughts drifting from his subconscious mind — dreams in which he realizes his ambition, dreams in which he pictures himself as a GREEN (fl indl 01 OITQr- 7

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L ( T I'! BOOKS A BOOK is a collection of written or printed sheets bound together and enclosed in a case called a cover. The modern book is the result of centuries of development. The Babylonians made their records on soft clay tablets, which were hardened by drying. The Ancient Egyptians used papyrus and the Romans used wax tablets. The making and selling of books is now one of our largest industries. It is estimated that the value of books produced annually in the United States amounts to at least one hundred million dollars, including books of fiction, travel, law. medicine, theology, education and for children. We are. however more interested at present in what books contain. Literature some say. But we know that it is not all literature, because according to our definition literature must be of lasting interest to mankind in general, and some of our modern novels will surely never live as did the Chaucer and Shakespeare of long ago. Whether they are literaure or not. books give us a means of learning the ideas of our fellow beings, expressed in their best manner, while we remaining comfortably in our own homes. According to our own age and thoughts, we each have a definite choice of the kind of books we best enjoy. When children, our parents read to us the Mother Goose Rhymes and fairy tales. Later Aesops Fables held our interest, and so on our reading lists vary with the years. As an example I will tell you something of my reading experiences. My first book was one my father owned when lie was a boy, a book about dogs, printed in England, with advertisements of cocoa and soap etc., on the inside of the covers. When I learned to read for myself, I eagerly followed the adventures of Mary Jane or the Bobbsev Twins. At the age of nine, I had a beautiful red and gold copy of Kipling’s “Two Jungle Books” R A M IT givfcn me, but until this day I have never read the entire account of Mowgli with the greai beasts of the jungle. The two French stories of Perrine and Remi next came to my bookshelves. During my years at Junior High School. I read Montgomery’s “Anne of Green Gables,” Date Douglas Wiggins’, Tarkington’s and Alcott’s stories for the early teens. It wasn’t until I entered High School that I began to enjoy biographies, travel stories and some of the classics. The newest member of my collection is the book, written last summer aboard the “Yankee,” by Captain and Mrs. Irving Johnson and sent to the publishers during my stay with them. Westward Bound on the Schooner Yankee” is one of my most treasured possessions, and 1 have many more hours of enjoyment from it vet to come. Although I have never read the entire Bible or even half of it, with my knowledge of its contents, I would choose it to take with me to that desert island, the only representative of the literature of our great world. As for my next literary purchase, I will not make any definite statement, but travel books are always acceptable. In this world we have books and literature about everything under the sun. so learn to enjoy good reading, right now. Next to his dog. man’s best friend is his book. RUTH HAZLEDINE, ’37 COSMOPOLITE—A DOCTOR’S WAITING ROOM IN this small town of Bristol we have the world. Does that seem utterly impossible? Not if viewed from the standpoint of people in the world. New York is only a bigger Bristol; our United States is only a larger New York; the nations of the world are only a more extensive United States. For example, in a smalltown doctor’s waiting room we can see people, as unknown to us, after all. as any Patagonian. GREEN ttmdL WOlOUtE- 6

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leader in liis chosen field. It is while I am so distracted, so engaged — seeming to be a part of some future era —that I can see the massive Supreme Court building, the main court room with its long bench and huge Roman and Greek columns, blending in harmony with other evidences of classical in- fluence upon modern architecture. Then suddenly men attired in long, flowing rabes, of dignified poise and that look of wisdom and intellect which years and experience bring, appear in the scene. There I stand between eight justices — the Chief Justice of the United States — an ambition realized. As this scene quickly vanishes with the silence of a bursting bubble another takes its place Now I see myself on a yacht in which 1 sail the seven seas and visit the countries ol the world, learning the languages and customs of many peoples, seeing all the worldly beauty created by God and man. However, like all dreams, which necessarily find their source in thought, this, too. was blotted out by the force of its own life. Yet. that dream, which finds its source in the heart, is as eternal as the soul of man. Such is that in which I see a large white house with a garden and surrounded by rich, green grass. At the door stands .... But need I go further? Too. there is the bell and this English period is over. R. T. “WHO PAYS?’ One day in “Chem.’’ when all was fine The teacher did desire To show the girls in class that day How to quench a fire. Some sodium bicarbonate And H(2) S0(4)— He mixed the two together— It spread across the floor. The acid flew both far and wide And spattered all around. A pair of stockings without a run Hardly could be found. The girls all had a conference And tried to make him pay ; But he sent back a little note :— “Not responsible today.” NORMAN HIBBERT. 37. WATERMAIDENS Down by the narrow passage Where the tides swirl to and fro. Where the great black rock uprises So that ships in care must go, Where a bell is ringing ever. A mournful song, and slow,— Down by the narrow passage. Beneath the dark green waves. By the base of the cliff o’er hanging, Which the dancing harbor laves. Sing the bright-haired water-maidens As they play in the shadowed caves. Light as the foam—they float on. Bright in the sombre deeps They laugh, and the sound of their voices Mocks the sobs of the widow who weeps. Comes to the ear of the weary fishers. Faintly troubles him as he sleeps. They have no past, no future. The present is all they know. As the tides wash out and in again, So they come and go, As the slow bell rings forever, So they sing in the caves below. Ruth Sanford, 37. GREEN dMfudl WttiDUE- 8