Central High School - Aglaia Yearbook (Manchester, NH)

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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

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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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THE serenity in his work cannot be doubted. It is a dingy, dirty shop where he works, and the odors are rank. The only light is his forge, where he transforms innocent pieces of iron into shoes for the most blue-blooded of animals. There is the dank, musty smell of redhot shoes being dipped into cold water, mingling with the odor of the sweat of horses. Through all the smoke and haze you can see his massive jaw and high forehead, topped with an unruly mop of coal-black hairy his eyes never leave his work for an instant. His mighty forearm rises and his mighty back, clothed only in under- shirt, is shiny with the perspiration of hard labor. If you speak to him, you know by the blank eyes that there is a false air of un- derstanding about him. Like Millett's Man with a I-Ioef' he is not of high in- telligence. He possesses, nevertheless, a joy in his work, a loyalty to those he serves, that might well be the envy of any man. Longfellow's immortal poem has made him a man of the ages. Lols SMITH JUST SOMETHING When I see a young man coming down the home stretch in a race I wonder to myself what he is thinking about. Is he glorying in his perfect physical condi- tion that is enabling him to win? Is he thinking of the peaceful look he will see in the eyes of the coach? Is he fighting for personal glory? Is he thinking of joy he will possess if he wins? So many peo- ple think they can hide their thoughts but they can't hide them from an observ- ing person. If it is joy, the eyes betray. OR ACLE 15 If it is shrewd contriving, again the eyes betray. Why can,t people under- stand that their eyes reveal? What will the young man who is coming down the home stretch do when he crosses the finish line a winner-wait around for congrat- ulations or rush over to see the rnan who made it possible for him to win-his coach? If the young man waits for praise of his friends-well-a sigh is evoked from yours truly. If the young winner rushes to his coach with eyes alight and eager to see if coach is satisHed-well- do you wonder why the ghost of a smile hovers about me? Do you mind if I leave now? HCHUCKH CARTER THE MODERN HIGHWAY Where is the beauty one used to see when traveling from one city to another? XVhere are the cars which used to travel so slowly yet gave us such wonderful chances to view the countryside? In trav- elling today one does not think of look- ing for beauty, all is for speed and time. The beautiful grove of trees where you once stopped and ate your lunchg the rippling brook, beside which you sat and read or restedg the occasional rabbit which hopped out of the bushes and the squirrel which came and let you feed him -where are all these? What happened to them? If you will look carefully, as you drive along the highway, which is fenced in by billboards, you can see a hot-dog stand where the grove of trees stood, you can see a patch over the brook, which now runs through a pipeg you can see the noisy crowd which has fright- ened off or, more likely, run over and killed the rabbit and squirrel. When the people of today overcome their lust for