Central High School - Aglaia Yearbook (Manchester, NH)

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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

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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 ORACLE speed, streamline, and sport we may see 'ir woodland dell, our rabbit and squir- ACI. And who knows? We might even see a deer! CARL P. -IAMES, JR. BOBBY'S SHOES When I was hve years old or so, I used to play almost every day with a boy named Bobby who lived in the house across the yard. Between the two houses ran a fence, over which he used to climb in order to shorten the way. The after- noon I saw him coming by the sidewalk I wondered about it. When he arrived, he pointed to his new brown shoes. The mystery was solved, he didn't want to scratch the shiny new shoes. I didnlt like the idea of having black shoes while his were brown. I told him so. We sat on the steps trying to think of a way to make them black like mine. He suggested that we get some black paint, but we didn't know where we could get any. Finally I thought of stove polish. He agreed. I went into the kitchen, pre- tending to get a drink of water. It was fortunate for me that mother was enter- taining two neighbors. I rushed out the back door with the polish and the brush. We hid behind the lilac tree, and I pro- ceeded with the painting. I was quite proud of my work. After I had finished, I went into the house to put the polish away. I wasn't so careful this time: I didn't care if mother did see me. Of course I didnyt realize that I had got some polish on my face and hands, and that I had ruined one of my best dresses. Mother said not a word. She put me before a looking glass. I was frightened and began to cry. I didn't know who the little girl was standing before me. Mother tried to make m: understand that it was I. She went out to see how I had acquired so much d'rt. When she saw Bobby's shoes col- ored black, she was very angry. I often wonder if Bobby received pun- ishment similar to mine. When we were once again allowed to play together, we never dared mention the affair. Mystery of long ago, silence of child- hood fear. KATHLEEN DUMONT THE MILK MAN The Milk Man comes to our door three or four times a week in the early morning hours and deposits a bottle of milk. If there is an empty bottle there, he picks it up, drops it in his rack, and departs noisily down two flights of stairs to the street. His wagon attempts to compen- sate its owner's noise by automobile-tired wheels. Although his visits are usually between five and seven, there is one day of the week that he returns at ten. When you open the door in response to his knock, he presents you with a yellow or white sheet of paper, on which is totalled the amount of your bill. If you see that he is in no hurry, you invite him in. The conversation invari- ably starts in the same manner. This sub- ject is the weather. Talking about the weather starts the conversation, whether you are talking to a milk man, a store- keeper, or a friend. The conversation, having gained its initiative, continues without interruption. You tell him about your aches and pains and ills, and ask him, as a man of the business world, about the business conditions, have they