Farmington High School - Laurel Yearbook (Farmington, ME)

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, 14 THE LAUREL R Q! Ei mn Illil - ig I 2 l 2 ONCE FELIX I-I! Twenty years, bitter years had passed since I last stood in that old lane. Strange it is, how often there are unac- countable intangible happenings, which course through one's life. Still more curious it is to realize that through a period of intermingled sorrow and joy, many times, a certain spot in nature holds a spell over us. Often, too, this favored spot imparts to us a vision of future joy and success, or seems to symbolize our souls and physique by characterizing ruggeclness, composure or subdued atmosphere of the spot and sur- rounding latndscape which impresses itself upon us. Sadness, too, is deeply associated with these bonds which seem, perhaps, only like mere coincidents. . But, after all, is it strange that there should be an incletinable relation between the elements and mortal ? Through the ages there has always been this surging tide of mortals, using nature as its playground for joy or stage for tragedy. Then is it strange that one spot, with which we are often closely related, should pnlsate with our very same spirit or be em- bodied in close alliance with our cares, sorrows and joys of life? still impressive and The old lane was beautiful. The long avenue remained the The parallel stone same in appearance. walls, moss covered and rough, were yet Mlenvy rnrtgaaar blanketed with twisted and climbing ram- blers, honeysuckle, and Woodbine. Farther down the aisle the high, battered old gate was swaying on creaking hinges, ending the long path leading to the low-towered house beyond. Ah l yes, there too were the long rows of pines, towering, overhanging, yes, the true sentinels of nature. Sentinels! The watch guards of my ris- ing hopes in long past days, once sharing in my joy. Twenty years ago I had waited in this lane, enrapt in joy and delightful expect- ancy. This was our trysting ground, the forerunner of expected paradise. On that last visit here the pines sang a rollicking rhapsody of joy and promise. Long I waited, dusk deepened, the breeze checked, the song of the pines ceased, silence fell- yet I waited, surely Sibyl would come. Click! The gate latch grated. Ah! now she was coming. A rustle of silk, nearing footsteps, a quick touch upon my shoulder. Sibyl ! I whispered tensely. A brief moment of cold silence followed. In the next instant I was answered by a cold voice, scornful and distant. Felix, go. Our past has been a dream. To me it is now a mere blind happening. Depart, never to return. Oh! Felix if you love me, keep this warning sacred. Goodbye. I heard a mocking rustle of attire draw-

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THE LAUREL 13 LENGTH OF THE. SCHOOL YEAR AY we not consider at this time the length of the school year of F. H. S. as compared with that of other Prep schools in the State. With the approach of the school year, students look forward to the last two weeks with a feeling of lassitude and non-interest in school work, due to the strenuous school year of 38 weeks which they will have ex- perienced, with only a short vacation of two weeks following the fall term of 15 weeks in length and a spring recess of 10 days following the winter term of 13 weeks. F. H. S. is only one of only two or three Prep schools in the State having a school year of 38 weeks. All others confine themselves to the regular 36 week period and cover the same amount of Work, as thoroughly and completely as does this school. The last two weeks coming as they do during the hottest days of summer can- not benefit the student to any degree. Classes are practically over, finals are com- pleted, and all efforts to concentrate on school work are entirely out of the question, although the student is required to attend school, and is expected to give his attention to school work to a certain degree. Consideration upon closing school two Weeks earlier in June would not seem un- reasonable inasmuch as at least 90 per cent. of the educational institutions of the State already favor this plan. 3.1 AT THE THEATRE HE average audience in an American moving picture theatre is no less in- teresting than the picture on the screen, and if one is observant one may discern the different types that compose an audience. First, there is the obliging benefactor to humanity who, being afraid his neighbors have not the power to read, accordingly announces all the titles aloud with great expression, and comments at length upon the appearance of the actors. I .consign to him the fate of a train announcer. Another wholly interesting person is the one who chews peanuts or candy loud enough to drown out the music. A great part of the time he is the one with the onion breath strong enough to lift a loco- motive. He is one of the most disgusting of this fraternity of offenders. The ex- traction of all his teeth would be a just and fitting punishment. Something should also be done about the young angel who has seen the presentation before, and who takes great pains to ex- plain the plot in detail to tho-se sitting around him. Surely when there is need for an explanation of the picture, the man- agement will give him a megaphone and put him on the stage from where he can air his knowledge to his less fortunate brothers. Next comes the dear old soul who goes to the movies to be shocked, and if she is, she immediately complains that the picture is unlit to be shown and if she is not, the picture is dry and uninteresting. She also comes to chastise the younger generation for using the theatre as a petting parlor. This subject is the one that invokes wide- spread criticism, but I doubt that anyone, if given the choice, would rather sit beside a person who talked or chewed continually than a young couple, who, although engaged in the very deplorable practice of petting, nevertheless are quiet and unobtrusive.

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THE LAUREL 15 ing away in retreat and footsteps fading in aloofness and then - silence. Now, twenty years later, I stood in the gathering dusk, again in this lane. How bitter it seemed, those twenty years of banishment, and now I was back at last, breaking that tortuous exile. With bared head I paced the length of that lane. How like me that naturc's avenue was! How it called in my waking and sleeping dreams through those past twenty years. It seemed the Hnal enlight- enment of unbearable sorrow. But yet, how bitter it was, my realization of the past, the regret for the joy that was des- tined not to be mine. What a pang for the future. Listen! There the pines were singing. Singing? No, I was mistaken, they were moaning in suppression. What were they saying to-night? Ah! the rhapsody was gone. How soleful those pines were. Now, like a full-throated voluntary, they were moaning out the song of my mood and thought. Once it was joy, now- listen? The pines, yes, they had the ex- pression of the change too. Softly now, as I haltingly stepped through the old gateway, I heard the song of my pines. Once Felix, once Felix, now still more subdued and expressive, the song came down to me on the wafting breeze. Once Felix. Dark and still, low browed and silent, there before me, stood the old house. Slowly I pushed the door open. The ap- pearance of the rooms showed long aban- donment. Dusty floors, stifled air and hol- low silence made it plain concerning Sibyl and her mother. How alike Sibyl and her mother had been! One the counterpart of the other in appearance and comradeship. Wearily I climbed the stairs. I walked the length of the hall. All the doors were swinging loosely in cold draughts of air. No, there was one which was closed tightly. The next room was last. Here I decided to sleep if possible. The dusk was becoming deeper. Night had come with all its seclusion and silence. Sleep seemed welcome. I-Iow symbolic the night seemed of my life. Now even my dreams were refusing me any hint or share of happiness. Later in the night, I awoke with a start. Ah! A steady rain weltered about the house. How monotonous that steady drip, drip, drip of the storm! No wonder I awoke! What was that? A series of slow, steady sobs and moans seemed to filter through the wall from the next room. The room with the closed door! The storm did not wake me. Soon I gropingly lighted a half used candle. Slowly I moved out into the hall toward the next door. I tapped softly. There, tl1e moaning ceased. How could I wait longer? Quietly the door swung in before my push. There, in this room, by the flickering light, I saw signs of cluttered use. In a moment my eyes were arrested by the sight of a Figure lying still. Slowly I approached the bedside. Was this Sibyl? Heaven forbid. Oh, what a picture that countenance revealed. It showed the own- er's soul to be seared by torture and all joy to be rent by a troubled conscience. That poor soul was now opening its eyes. It was - Sibyl's motlzer! Felix? she questioned tremulously. Yes, it is I. Oh! she groaned in a piteous whis- per. All remained silent for a time, excepting the revelry of the night wind and rain. Soon with a supreme effort, Sibyl's mother seemed to prepare to impart a cer- tain something to me, which I thought was the primary reason for the torture of her soul. Felix, she spoke in a tense whisper, I have wronged you and Sibyl terribly. I waited intently.