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

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STUDENT COUNCIL 1st row—Massa. DuPont, Schinigoi, Romano. 2nd row- Bottomlcy. McMahon, Pinlu-ro, Grabcrt, Securo.

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ILI X K U A K Y CHAMP or THE MOUNTAINS A storm was brewing over the towering snow-peaked Alps; black, ominous clouds were rapidly gathering, and the air grew suddenly cold and damp. Inside the warm Bcnedictirn monastery, that lay nestled close to a mountain, above the surrounding lands. Champ, the pride of the monks, lay waiting expectantly by tne blazing hearth for his chance to prove himself worthy of his name. He was a large St. Bernard, with an imposing head, long, muscular body, straight, powerful legs, and with a fin , white-haired coat, spotted at intervals with black. His great brown eyes flashed, and his body quivered, as he saw Father Paul slowly limping towards him. This good, benevolent monk had trained Champ from the dog’s earliest days, and now to see his dog step out to fulfill his first duty made his old heart swell with pride. After patiently adjusting the dog’s collar basket containing a bottle of brandy. Father Paul led the excited St. Bernard to the massive stone door, unbolted it, and whispered in his ear, “Goodbye, my friend. Remember you are a champion now.” The dog licked his master’s wrinkled hand that was extended towards him, and, turning quickly followed that route so many times during his training. It was early afternoon when he set out, and the snow was beginning to fall, gently swirling about him as he plodded along, his footsteps in time to his heartbeats, and bis mind alert to the familiar scene of rugged mountains and steep cliffs about him. However, the clouds that had only threatened the country before, now sent down a whirling host of white flakes, while the icy wind chilled his glowing heart; but when he heard the faint chimes of the monastery sending out their message of hope and cheer, his body stiffened, and his heart regained courage. Now his sleek coat was drip- ping, and ice was beginning to coat him, while his eyes watered from the cold. Still on he plodded his feet sinking deeper and deeper into the soft, freezing snow. Suddenly he forgot his trouble as he scented a human, and then caught sight of a heap of black nearby. He struggled ahead, but the wind drove him back, back near the precipice overlooking a deep chasm. Now he slipped, but he was determined, and pushed with all his might against that wind’s force. When at last he neared the object, a child’s face, blue from cold, and blood-stained, greeted his eyes. He licked the pinched face, and tried to arouse him by pushing him with his paw, but to no avail. His uncanny sense told him that help was needed, and needed quickly. He turned now, and the wind no longer impeded his passage. Scarcely could he discern that mountain pass, but the bells, pealing forth once again, helped him find his way. It was a tedious run back to the monastery, for the snow kept blinding him, and getting deeper and deeper. But Champ of the mountains had been tried, and his victory was certain. He barked loudly as he approached the tutting stone structure, and was hastily admitted. He held in his mouth a woolen glove which he laid down at Father Paul’s sandaled feet. The venerable monk knelt down beside the still-trembling dog and whispered, “You’ve justified my faith in you. Champ. You’ve come through on your first test.” The little boy was rescued soon by a scouting party of the monks, led by Champ; and a few weeks later a burnished gold plate gleamed from around Champ’s neck, but there was more than gold in the look and kind words Father Paul had given him before, and love was the only reward he craved. Who was the child? How did he get there? That is and will be forever, a secret. EMMA BONVICIN, ’38 GREEN (OvidL WOlDIEr 4

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GRANDPA ARCHIBALD’S EXPERIENCE We’re supposed to be a civilized nation, by j'miny, but what I saw this afternoon leads me to believe otherwise. My grandson induced me to see some sort of a contest between two high schools. I think he called the game “feetball.” Before I could offer much protest, I found myself on the way with him to the scene of the contest, a field on the outskirts of the town. Then by Jove, I discovered that one must pay to see some high school boys chasing an overgrown egg all over the field. It surely was an ostrich egg. I cannot think of another bird that has such huge eggs. No sooner did my grandson hustle me to a seat, when we saw a gang of fellows run onto the field dressed in bright-colored uniforms with numbers on their backs. I suppose they were being punished for some-offense committed at school. But to get back to the subject, a few “perty gals” immediately confronted the grandstand and everyone began yelling the name of grandson’s school. Down-light silly, I say! Soon everyone became intensely interested at what was happening on the field. A fellow would stoop, throw the egg between his legs at another boy behind him who tucked it under his arm and ran. Everyone then chased him until someone with a different colored uniform jumped at him and knocked him to the ground. But the thing I enjoyed most was to see those men dressed in white, running around, blowing whistles and horns. They must have been there to amuse the crowd, or to divert their attention from the barbarism of the game. It seems that whenever the whistle would be sounded the boys would stop fighting and hold a conference before they began chasing one another again. But here something happened that caused me to dislike •lie so-called game. After the whistle had been blown, it was noticed that a boy did not get up from the ground. A few important-looking “gents,” coaches my grandson called them, but they didn’t look like that type of auto to me. arose from a bench on the sideline, and, fol- lowed by a small boy struggling with a pail of water, ran to the injured player. Soon they carried him from the field. This same thing happened about six or seven more times during the game. If this is a sport fit for growing youngsters, my name isn’t Archibald Macguil-icutty. During the remaining part of the game my thoughts always returned to that poor fellow lying on the stretcher. Meanwhile the spectators nearly yelled me deaf, and 1 certainly was glad when my grandson told me the game was over. Now that I am home again, I feel my dormant rheumatism returning, probably stimulated by the weather at the game. Oh! What’s this world coming to? Archibald Maeguilieu11y. TEVIS SHUSMAN, ’38 “BILLY” There was a young man named Billy Who thought to be careful was silly He struck up a match On fire his clothes did catch And now in his hands lies a lily. B. HAM BRICK, ’38 “DOPEY” There once was a boy called “Dopey, For he always seemed to be mopey. One day as he sang. On the head he was banged And now he’s no longer Dopey. OLYMPIA PROTO. ’38 THE BIRDIE There was a young bird in a tree Who sang, “Come, listen to me” - - 1 sing nice and loud Of mv voice I am proud And for my songs you pay no fee. MARTHA DiMEZZA, 38 O F -Er Er N (U tfldl Vy D 1 D U 6