Fairhaven High School - Huttlestonian Yearbook (Fairhaven, MA)

Page 10 text:

8 THE HUTTLESTONIAN Jim laughed loud at this and then, quite suddenly, dropped at the feet of Uh-la. The liquor had done its work. Sf- ». ' • !■ Jim awoke and looked about him. He was lying at the foot of the wooden image of Uh-la. He faintly remembered hitting the nose of the god with the bottle, and this recollection brought a chuckle. II The mosquitoes, Jim thought, must have been having a merry time with him las t night, for his body itched in a way that almost brought tears to his eyes. But no, this was not a mosquito bite. He looked at his leg. It was swollen in many places an inch high, and one swelling had, in a certain way, cracked the skin, and he could see a black fleshy substance through the crack. He must be dreaming. The black seemed to come farther out. He looked with incredulity and fear. Lord, he was stark mad. There was Nah-ta’s head. There were his eyes, his mouth, his neck, his body. — God what is this? — Then the miniature Nah-ta-spoke — You have insulted Uh-la the Terrible, Uh-la the Avenger, the God of Gods. We did not touch you for you were accursed and now you have been dealt with as he decreed.” Jim was raving; he tried to grasp the little body, but it eluded his fingers. With screeching horror, he saw another tiny Nah-ta arise from his broken flesh. As the third little black man came in view, he screamed and clutched at the tiny fiend. And then a shudder ran through his body, and he was cast into oblivion.

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THE HUTTLESTONI AN 7 Black Revenge Lazarus Alexion I J IM was watching the dancers grotesquely jump and writhe about the fire. He felt rather light-headed and gay, and he raised the bottle to his lips again. Ah — !” The more he drank the better it tasted, and the better he felt. Upon a sudden impulse, he joined the savages in their contortions. They, under the influence of their emotions, were yelling and leaping almost into the fire; Jim, under the influence of his whiskey, followed suit. The wooden god, Uh-La, woodenly watched them through his wooden eyes as he sat upon his wooden throne. He was the almighty devil-god, who punished all who dared to question his godliness and all who disrespected him. He was god of gods, highest, most majestic, and most terrible. This festival was in Uh-la’s honor, and he would be feted for seven days and nights, after which time all the dancers would drop, well nigh dead from exhaustion. Jim, twisting and cavorting with the bottle in his hand, thought that somehow those wooden eyes were .mocking him. Up to that time, he had borne no malice toward Uh-la, but now some wild impulse made him dash up to the god and hit his highness such a blow on the nose with the whiskey bottle, that that most worthy organ was cracked. Immediately all activity stopped. Everyone looked as if struck by something undefinable. Jim laughed and expected them to laugh, but they did not. Only the eldest of them, Nah-ta, spoke. You have insulted Uh-la the Terrible, Uh-la the Avenger, God of Gods. We cannot touch you, for you are accursed and you shall be dealt with as He decrees.

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THE HUTTLESTONI AN 9 A Drama From Life Paul Fisher L ife is a very strange, a very unpredictable affair. As this sentence is being fashioned, it is not with the view of reveal¬ ing a startling philosophical theory. From the first days, this general thought has fought itself into clarification though the interpretations varied as did the mode of that time. Today, it is the vogue to call Life — with a capital ' L” — strange and unpredictable. This vogue has been nurtured by pedants who would have people regard them as thinkers, and by the com¬ parative few who honestly do expend much contemplation on the subject. I lay pretension to neither category, but rather bear out my opening remark by a story, utterly truthful and barren in exaggeration of personal coloring. Once in a great while comes a story which, by its surpris¬ ing twists, by the unprecedented trails it follows, by the un¬ common characters who people it, by the bizzare action it in¬ volves, and the unique setting which serves as its reflector, bids fair to be the delight of the writer. Personally, I believe I have such a one in the history of Jean Giraudon. Jean Giraudon was a typical French youth. His parents were of bourgeois stock. He was of average intellect, had average desires, and average dislikes. It becomes evident that he might very appropriately be termed average”, as indeed he might have, had it not been for the fact that he brimmed with vitality and enthusiasm. Occasionally he directed these traits into useful channels; more often, he did not. He started down the wrong channel after he had read Marx. Engels gave him steam, a few radicals at college fired him further, and Jean did the rest. That Monsieur J. Firon Flambert, Minister of Education, was corrupting thousands of young minds according to Jean’s sincere belief. It took but a few drinks to present Monsieur Flambert as a dragon, stuffing worn-out, impractical dogmas down the very throats of rosy- faced children.