Central High School - Aglaia Yearbook (Manchester, NH)

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THE OR army training, I do not know, but he stopped with one foot poised over the helpless child. Had that foot descended, it would have crushed the tiny body. From that day Jack had a larger place than ever in my heart. Lixwiuzxcrz Fox LISTENING IN There is a sharp click, a pause of thirty seconds or less, and then, a burst of words or music. I am now listening in on the radio. Having drawn up a comfortable ro:kfng chair and a chair for my feet, I r:-lax and prcpare to enjoy myself. Al- most instantly, I dream that I am direct- ing th: famous symphony orchestra which is coming in so excellently. To the superb melodies of a jazz band, I am floating with a very beautiful girl in my arms. Suddenly, the lilting tune ends, my pretty maid vanishes from my arms, as I am taken to the ringside of a champion- ship boxing match. I become tense and crouch over so as not to miss a single word of the sports announcer. The plunk, plunk of leather against body can be heard plainly. Then the excited roar- ing crowd of fans fairly makes the radio vibrate, as the champion is knocked out and the championship comes back to the good old U. S. A. The announcer is so excited that he can scarcely describe what is taking place. With a slight twist ofthe dial, I begin to shiver as I hear the eerie voice of the Shadow, who sees all and knows all. When the mystery is cleared up, I breathe a sigh of relief and then be- rate myself for being so foolish. A glance at the radio news tells me that a news broadcast is due, and I listen to the resume. Once again comes the throbbing ACLE 11 rhythm of a dance band, and I divine that pleasure which comes from good music. I have been given that delight which comes only to those who really listen-in. RIN-tx MVI.M.-Us WATER Water can inspire a poet, but what can water do for a man dying of thirst a hundred miles from nowhere, or to a man who is drowning two miles from the nearest shore? The poet sits leisurely on a patch of moss, rests his back against a tree, and looks dreamily into the miniature rapids of a mountain stream. After a half hour of meditation he writes a few words on a pad of paper, then repeats what he has written to the birds, or the brook, or it may even be the soft gentle breezes. And then out on the burning sands of the desert. The hot rays of the sun pour down on the never-ending sand dunes. Never a breeze, not even a warm breeze, stirs the stifling air. A man, half crazy, crawls on all fours. After a half hour of panting, crying, and clawing at his parched throat, he screams, yells, and goes through gestures of agony. If a sparkling brook were close by him, would he sit beside it and write poetry? And now in the middle of a beautiful lake a man, unable to swim, is trying desperately to tear off his clothes. As he starts to sink he lets out screams of hor- ror and madly moves his legs and arms in an effort to keep his head above the sur- face of the water. Water is all that he can see. He can't stop to admire the beau-

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12 ,X- nearer, until it is booming away in front of me. A tingling sensation runs up and down my spine as the music nears me, and I find myself humming and my feet keeping time with the rhythm of a stirring march. I never feel quite so patriotic as when hearing a band play Stars and Stripes Forever for some other creation of Sou- sa'sj and seeing our colors float above marching men. If it is a large parade, I delight in hav- ing to push and shove my way through the throngs on the streets. Having finally found a place of vantage from which to view the parade, I like to look at the people around me and watch their excite- ment. When at last the parade has passed, I have all I can do to suppress my desire to run along with it. As it is, I rush away to the street on which the parade is to return, and there I see it once more, ex- periencing the same delight all over again. MARION LESTER AN OLD ARMY HORSE To look at jack from a distance, you could not see that he differed radically from the other horses grazing about. Ap- proach him cautiously until you are about ten feet away, and you will see, if your eyes are sharp, that his left flank bears the letters U S Cf, standing for United States Cavalry. Taking care not to excite the old boy, encircle him until the right flank is visible. There, you will be astonished by the maze of brands- brands of division, company, battalion, brigade, and what have you. All of these TI-IIC ORACLE marks are crossed out but one. Ist Div. signifies that his last services in the army were rendered to the First Division. When I first became acquainted with old Jack, I wondered about these crossed out brands. After a day of trying to make him work, I discovered the under- lying cause-he was so lazy that no one wanted him. Later I realized that his laziness might have been caused by lack of reward for his labors. I began to give him some salt or other delicacy after he performed a task, and presently laziness disappeared. His reasoning Cif horses reasonj was log- ical enough, wasnlt it? Why work if you don't benefit by it? He had several other characteristics that set him off from horses in general. While I could go into the pasture swing- ing a rope and walk right up to him, my uncle Cwho considered himself master of horsesj had difficulty in catching him, even though he held the rope behind him and uttered coaxing words. jack had one good quality which he carried over from his army training-his habit of obeying commands immediately. I didn't at first realize the value of this. It was spring, plowing time and Jack was pulling a plow which I handled. Lead- ing him was June, my little five-year-old cousin, keenly enjoying herself in the hazardous position which I had thought- lessly allowed her to take. All went well until suddenly, without warning, June stumbled and fell! Realizing how helpless I was-a full ten feet from her-I did the only thing possible. I shouted, Hjack! Halt! Whether he understood the importance of the situation or whether it was his old

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12 THE ORACLE tiful scenery of a shore two miles off, he is not thirsty, so what does water mean to him? FRED HEILMAN, jk. RIDING IN A NEW YORK TAXI I have learned that to ride in a New York taxi one must be fearless, courage- ous, and sometimes, I think, a little men- tally unbalanced. As I stand on the corner of Broadway and Forty-second Street and cautiouslv look over the taxis lined up for hire, I shudder. This one is quite dented, evi- dently the driver has taken a few too many chances. In the next one the driver is dozing over a newspaper and I dare not disturb him, but the third one passes muster. The driver looks as though he can be depended on to drive carefully and charge moderately. My judgment at Hrst seems good. He drives cautiously, for the Hrst few blocks. I lean back relieved. I notice a small printed card which he has taken pains to tack up in his auto. It asks not to hurry the driver. Safety First! Hurry him! Heavens! I should think not. I am im- mediately relieved and close my eyes in full security. Foolish me! I am rudely awakened from my day dreaming by the brakes being jammed on full force and I barely save myself from going through the window by grasping a nearby strap. The excitement for the balance of the ride is beyond everything. I sit on the edge of the seat, am bounced off it, and scramble back to it and con- tinue my riding with my hat completely shutting the vision of one eye because I do not dare let go of the window casing. JEAN MCDOWELL EXUBERANCE I have that disease called exuberance of spirits. Whenever someone comes into the house singing at the top of his lungs, the family says, just Russellf But what of it? A little noise never hurt anyone, especially if it is happy noise. I'm sure it's much more fun than to walk decor- ously into their midst. Dad says I go sailing around with my feet in the air, emitting war whoops. I get that way now and then just to be different. But, hon- estly, isn't it more fun to be noisy-and happy - than to be silent, glum, and morose? I think so. When I feel like that, I could conquer the world, invent something wonderful, or even study, well -maybe. Don't you ever feel like that, even if you are more grown-up and squelched than I? RUSSELL PLUMPTON BLACKSMITH I do not know him personally. Nor does anyone. Yet he is a striking char- acter. I say striking, but do not think for an instant that he is dominating. He is French, very French. His parents werenit of the aristocratic Parisian stock, but of the French Canadian. There are many theories why he still carries on a trade of another generation. They are as absurd as they are numer- ous. I would like you to understand that his financial condition does not enter into this, as it was, long ago, happily settled. Any man who has seen him once, rever- ently, perhaps even religiously, pick up a horse's hoof and lift it to his worn leather apron will know the motive for his persisting in such an apparently fu- tile occupation. He loves horses. His