Fairhaven High School - Huttlestonian Yearbook (Fairhaven, MA)

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12 THE HUTTLESTONIAN The cover of this issue of “The Huttlestonian” was designed by Elsie Perry, ’25. Miss Perry is to be congratulated on her cover de¬ sign, obviously the result of many hours of work. The various plates for the department headings are also products of the art department— the work of diverse students. We hope that our subscribers will enjoy reading “The Python Hunt” in the present issue of the magazine. The story relates a per¬ sonal experience of the writer, Frederick Cowles, who has just come to the United States from Africa where he has been living the greater part of his life. During the month of October many of the pupils in the English Classes enjoyed the study of the short story. Each year the “Boston Traveler” holds a short story contest for High School students. This year a number of students from the Fairhaven High entered the con¬ test. Some of the stories submitted showed unusual originality on the part of the author. We, the Staff, wish to express our appreciation to Miss Siebert for her enthusiastic and untiring help in gathering and compiling the ma¬ terial for this issue of the “Huttlestonian.” We realize that without her valuable guidance we could not have hoped to have made the magazine a success. We are grateful also for the cooperation of the rest of the faculty and of the pupils who so generously contributed to our support. “Believe that Today is the greatest day you will see, and that what you do today will count for a thousand times as much as what you may do to-morrow.” How true this statement is, and how well we can apply it to our school work! If each one of us would deter¬ mine in our work or play, to carry out this wise suggestion, how much more we would be able to accomplish. Too often we think of the morrow with direful neglect of the day. It is a common saying among pupils, “Well, I can do it to-morrow. What’s the use of worrying ? ” Oh yes! What is the use ? But just try to accomplish a certain task today! Note how much easier is the doing of the work now than at a later date. Remember that tomorrow never comes! Now is the time! With this in mind, we should gird ourselves for the task, and to-morrow look back with satisfaction on the work of the day.

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THE HUTTLESTONIAN 11 Ten Minutes With The Principal “The other day,” says our assistant-editor, “it was my good fortune to find Mr. Dickey alone in his office for a few consecutive moments, and to get him to express his ideas about ‘School Spirit’.” “There is no boy or girl who goes to school, expecially to high school,” said Mr. Dickey, “who does not in some way show or de¬ velop school spirit. School spirit is a general term for something which is very elusive and which can not be defined in a group of re¬ lated words. This attitude, as that is what it comes closest to being, should show itself in every pupil in everything that he thinks, he says, or he does. No branch of school work demands any more ‘school spirit’ than any other branch because all pupils are not athletic nor are all pupils book worms. “In all the various organizations, and in the social life of the school curriculum, this vital characteristic is what puts the school at the top. The willingness to work and to fight together is advanced through this medium by the good fellowship between the pupils. - “Athletics, however, bring out this so-called spirit one hundred per cent. Fairness plays the leading role in all branches of athletics and one’s standard of fairness is adjusted by the amount of spirit he pos¬ sesses. “The people of the community are the critics of the appearance and actions of high school pupils. It is the guardian angel called ‘school spirit’ who dictates to the majority when they are in doubt. “And so I might say a school without this spirit could be compared to a government without a head. If is the directing power through the will of the majority.” F. V. S., ’25,

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THE HUTTLESTONIAN 13 The Branched Road T HE hoarse blast of a steamer’s horn penetrated the fog, into whose pall the dark hull of a vessel was fast disappearing. Down the length of the wharf, dodging in and out among the piles of cargo, the leave-taking friends, and the sweating stevedores, raced the figure of a man. Upon hearing the sound from the steamer, he stopped and a guttural snarl like that of a disappointed beast broke from the depths of his throat. He stood for some time leaning against a pile gazing disconsolately into the fog with a sullen, bitter look on his face. The jangle of the engine room bell, signaling for full speed ahead, reached his ears across the water. He slumped down upon the wharf edge, the collar of his worn, grey coat drawn up close about his bull neck. Dick Brag realized he had missed more than the boat. When he had obtained a position as a hand on board the Esthonia it was the first real step for the better that he had ever taken in his life. And now through his own fault—his own carelessness—he had missed the boat and the chance. Brag drew himself deeper into the scanty folds of his coat. He sat staring at the dark waves that slapped spitefully at the wharf. Finally he drew himself to his feet and shambled back down the wharf to the city. sjc Sjs A circle of light played about the back room of a pawn shop in the more disreputable portion of the city. At last it came to rest on the face of a small safe. Dick Brag knelt down before it and his fingers delicately and carefully twirled the dial. He raised his head to listen. He resumed his work with an ugly chuckle. He could depend upon Jimmie Lee. Four years before he had missed a boat and instead met Jimmie Lee. He had been taught a trade by Jimmie. It was not honest, perhaps, as honesty runs, but never-the-less profitable. And in many an experience he had learned of Jimmie’s devotedness to him. So tonight Jimmie insisted upon re¬ maining faithfully on guard as the outside man. Suddenly came the sound of flying feet, a shot, and Jimmie’s warn¬ ing voice. Brag leaped to his feet and raced through the door into the alley. He saw Jimmie running but with a reeling stagger. “Gome on,” growled Brag,