Fairhaven High School - Huttlestonian Yearbook (Fairhaven, MA)

Page 18 text:

16 THE HUTTLESTONIAN Smoke Soft, curling wisps floating lazily, creeping silently up an unknown staircase; spirals clutching space until they are blotted out, never to return. Thick, acrid columns rushing skyward— Masses of visible energy shooting higher. Blue-black velvet puffing; then gaseous denseness is absorbed in the skyline. Marjorie Stitt, ’3 6 The Ways of Men You always say tomorrow And put it off again. And then you find with sorrow That that’s the way with men. With teachers it is different. Their hearts are hard and cruel. They think it is indifference — And keep you after school. Someday, you may be master. The tables will be turned! And they’ll meet with disaster Until their lesson’s learned. Gladys Raymond, ’37

Page 17 text:

THE HUTTLESTONIAN 15 dripping filth of a trench seeped in dismal January rains. What was it Attouni had said? Something like, Take care of those hands; the world needs them.” Involuntarily hi eyes wandered up to the cold steel of his bayonet. Yes, the world did need his hands. But it was evident that it prized their efficiency with the bayonet more than with the scalpel. Break¬ ing his immobility of form, he took his weapon across his knees and felt the edge and point. Shortly he would find it neces¬ sary to use this. He! He who had learned to save lives with intricate instruments and delicate touch, would plunge this cruel blade into some heart. Well, he had been going to be a heart specialist, and if this was what the world called spec¬ ializing on the heart, he would fulfill requirements. Small wonder he was tempted to laugh; the situation did contain humor— Nature was painting dusk into night on a field in France when a screaming whistle split the silence attendant to this quiet occupation. It was the Zero Hour and Nature’s handi¬ work was spoiled by soldiers clambering over fortifications and through barbed wire, by the eery whistling of shells, and by agonized cries. Ceres was banished and Mars stood triumphant as men, in confirmation with his wish, proceeded to kill each other. i ' r The sun, as had been its custom since the outbreak of the war, peered fearfully over a horizon of hideous skeletons which had once been trees clothed in verdant green, to see what havoc the night had wrought. The fear was not unjustified. Huddled in pitiful brown bundles were those who short hours before had been living men. They were all alike — with their coatings of mud mingled with blood. One stood out from this slaughter. His hands were so white against the drab back¬ ground. Paul Fisher, ’36

Page 19 text:

THE HUTTLESTONI AN My Pet Pest N o matter when or where I go, I run into a radio, The same old, noisy, pesky box, That pesters me with its loud squawks. Advertisements — day in, day out, I wonder what they’re all about! Which products really are the best? When, oh when, will we ever rest? Bread, and beans, and new Ford cars, Candy, cigarettes, cigars, Toothpaste, liver pills, and ink, Bathtubs, faucets, kitchen sinks! To me, the radio is bunk! Oh, how I wish it could be sunk Down to the bottom of the sea, So it would never bother me! Janice T. Eldredge, ’37 17