Central High School - Aglaia Yearbook (Manchester, NH)

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T H E SPICY NUT-BROWN ALE fWord magic often evokes pictures for- eign to the experiences of the reader or hearer, - witness the following, touched OE by the phrase in Milton's L'Allegro.j This phrase brings to my imagination a picture of ale perfectly brewed, con- taining all the qualities that the best ale should have. I have in mind a beverage rich in odor and in color, a liquid that incites even the most timid, tied-down tongue to break loose and waggle in a magnetic manner. This mead of the mor- tal, as I see it now, is reposing in a pewter or earthen mugg the mug is not a work of art, for there is no beauty requirement made of it. Its sole service is to convey from the tap of a keg to a welcome pal- ate the fluid so amply described in the first three words. This particular mug is being manipulated by a stubby, knurled hand attached to a brown, thick, hairy arm encased in a smudgy frock, all be- longing to a typical English farmer, tak- ing his turn at telling a tale on a Holyday Eve. A fire roars and crackles in ever- lasting attempts to make more certain its own place in the circle of villagers. Its flames, encouraged by the whispering winds at the chimney's top, light up the oaken rafters supporting the thatched roof over the village tavern. And, after the stories are concluded, before the occupants of this tap-room creep off to bed, there is an all-round request for one more mug of spicy nut- brofwn ale. HENRY L. WILDER, IR. ORACLE 23 ON FAREWELLS Why sadness on a farewell day When good friends stray apart? Wfhy tears from women, sighs from men, And each a broken heart? The French, in parting, say Adieu g The Spanish, Adios,'g The Yankee damply says Good-bye, In act and tone morose. But these are sayings much too strong, They fill the heart with woeg They mean, We may neier meet again Till home to God we go, So give me a more cheerful Word: Au rev0ir, French parting song, The German,s famed Auf Wiederschenf, Or, best of all-- So long. VVENTWORTH BROWN EXCERPT REMINISCENT As I recall it now, smoke drifted up from the blazing wood, pieces of pine snapped and crackled as the little tongues of flames licked them. The colorful spot around the fire was emphasized by the inky blackness of the night which sur- rounded us. KATHERINIE GULA, 193613 AN OLD PINE TREE In spite of its deplorable condition, still retaining some of its former prestige, it stands like a king in the wilderness. KI4ZNNE1'1I LODGE, 193713

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22 THE ORACLE that he was pleasant, knew what he was talking about, and had a good sense of world relations. PIARRY FROMAN DOWN MOUNTAIN SKIING Lucky is the skier who meets that ideal snow condition - feathery snow over hard crust. Luckier is he if he finds it on a good skiing mountain, and still luckier is he if this mountain is Mount Washing- ton, the monarch of the White Moun- tains. It was my good fortune to experi- ence all of these conditions, and from this experience I concluded that the real appreciation of the beauty and the pleas- ures that this mountain aljfords can only be had by one who has skied on its steep sides during the reign of King W'inter. Let,s start at the beginning. When we approach the base of the mountain we catch an initial glimpse of it. The bleak white face of that part of Tuckerman,s Ravine called Boott's Spur looms in front of us. I can recall now that deep feeling of awe that crept over me as I looked upon its tremendously high sides. As a matter of fact it is only about half- way up the mountain. We seemed to be going into a different world, for a few miles back it had not been snowing. Soon we reached the base camps, and prepared to climb up the winding trail. Some might think this not so interesting, but one must remember that as we climb up we are continually talking about how we will go around the numerous turns, which side of the trail we shall go down on, and the like. As we proceed upward, something happens that could not possiblyitake place in the summer. There is a sharp warning shout of Trail!', and a skier, who seems to have the quality of a thun- derbolt, plunges out of nothingncss and down into nothingncss again. He is ac- companied by a distinct hiss of his skfs, which perfectly exemplihes his great speed. There is a still greater thrill when his companion follows, sees us, swerves, and then gracefully, amidst a swirling mass of snow, stops at our feet, and tells us of the snow conditions above. Climbing along again we can see the faint outline of a wind-swept crag and the tiresomeness of the climb is broken by watching the snow whirling off the top of this ravine. We can surmise by the speed of this snow and a faint roaring sound that there is a high wind up there. After another mile of climbing we ar- rive in Tuckerman's Ravine. It is like a huge white bowl, seven hundred feet deep. But as we gaze at its great head- wall, it does not seem high and it does not seem steep, for there is absolutely no perspective. Finally, some of us venture up this great slope and then one can really see the tremendous size of the steep head- wall, for those on it appear as minute, insignificant dots on a huge, pure-white background. After feasting on the beauty of this scene, we adjust our skis and start down. For three winding miles the trail drops, in endless curves. Speed, wind, whirling snow! In a very small fraction of the time it took us to climb, we have de- scended. As we eat a warm supper at the base, we can hardly realize that just a few minutes before we were up in Tucker- man's Ravine, three miles away. ROBERT SKINNER

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THE ORACLE A PERFECT DAY fWitI9 Apologies to Miltonj A mighty wave of red sweeps up the sky And routs the inky blackness from its path, Announcing Sol's approach again to earth. In through the red are wedged thin streaks of gold Which seem to hold the sky itself in place, As slowly rears the sun its shaggy head, To wake me with its great display of light. Far off a crow rasps out its throaty caw, A pig squeals loud, a mule brays in the barn, A cow moos deep, a dog barks loud and long, While nearer sings a bird on budded treeg And mingled with the noise come smells of spring - Of rich, deep mud, the scent of early flowers. I break my fast with victuals plainly cooked, Then hitch I to the plow the tractor gray And turn the furrows over two at once, In half the time it took old Bess and Paw. So thus by noon the daily tasks are done, And I can turn my thoughts to lighter things: Go hunting, Hshing, hiking, or just read, Or drive to town our brand new V8, To see a picture show or call on friends. When I return at five or six o'clock, We gather round the table to say grace, Which done, we eat most heartily indeed, Until, quite full, we seat us round the room To hear the news or music soft and sweet, Till eight or even nine o'clock at night, Then stumble off to bed to sleep in peace. JOHN PILLSBURY