Farmington High School - Laurel Yearbook (Farmington, ME)

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sk LAUREL 'k t AN ANSWER TO 'LINES TO AN AMERICAN OFFICER By Noel Coward Dear Mr. Coward: I sincerely agree That needless boast and empty word Can never win our liberty. And maybe he was indeed absurd Who arrogantly uttered that silly phrase, f'We're here to win the war for you 'J You say you know my country well- The mountain's bluish, misty haze, Majestic river, cliff, and dell. You are a Britisher. Yes, I know. And l, an American. My country has not had so long to grow As yours. And, too-this man Was young, as is our young country. To us that phrase was as a warm 'Hellof We are like that-just nonchalant and free. Our humor, often trite, l know,- But surely, so great a man as you Can see, behind the laughter, cheers- We all pitch in: do the most we can do. Who can say that dull sorrow and tears Will lift War's burdens as laughter can do. Doris Stanley '44 SONG OF THE COUNTRY OMETIMES I like to walk to the summit of a lonely hill, and gaze at the world be- fore me. My world. The hills rising in the distance, the meadows, patches of lazy green with cows and sheep, and horses, toog the marshy swamplands, woods, and finally a stretch of dusky-blue mountains serving as a protective background-all are part of my world, I could never do without it. All its humble harvest is to be received with waiting hands. Its song reaches my ears exclusively, seeming to call me and implore me to listen. It is a strange and sometimes mournful song, but not always. Often it is mingled with the sort of gaiety caught in an autumnal gypsy dance. It is of winds, spring rains, and lirst meadow flowers. The song is to the tune of hot, sweltering afternoons in haying, when the penetrating sun- rays and the scent of the stacks of new-made, golden fodder become one. It is to the tune of the frosty wonderland while being snowbound in winter. Out across the vale and up the mountains, the snowy cov- ering is laid, and the air is clear-cut and still, as if the moment were to be preserved forever. 22 The song is also in tune with spring rains. Some people End ugliness in those frequent showers-the muddiness of back farm roads and too wet fields. But is that all there is? God intended that there should also be beauty in spring rains. Spring can hurt when the heart's winter is doubtful and bitter, but the rains should seem a new hope and almost an uplifting of the spirit. For, do not young plants and seedlings grow to maturity with the aid of spring rains? In summer, to lie serenely amid the tall grass, uncut as yet for winter, is peaceful. It seems as if one were a small, intruding elf in a strange world. Or perhaps, as a giant in a magnifi- cent green forest of rich meadow grass. It waves loftily and sways in the wind. Later, in a week or two, it will be transformed into a for- est of gold, but still the wind will play among the grains, and will send ripples across the Field of golden hay. This hay will live in dark, brown earth, and thrive until cut and stored in mows-lifeless. Lifeless-with the breath of life that once romped in the forest of the sun stamped from it as surely as it was cut and taken from the soil which gave it birth. And the autumn will arrive. It always has for country folk. Like the lines of the poem, it seems, There is something in the autumn that is native to n1y blood. Could it be the firelight flickering across the happy face of some gypsy Vagabond? Or is it autumn sunset burning above yonder mountains in the west? But Mr. Carman must have understood it so much bet- ter than ll Some people talk of the drudgery and monotony of farm life. They say it is dull, life- less, and naked of any beauty whatsoever. That I can not understand. Why, it seems only yes- terday that each time I went to bring home the herd of Ierseys from pasture, I found hidden mysteries in the pasture land, miles from any- where. Rarely would a city person have the opportunity to witness the summer hills and rises in the land, the alders, ground hemlocks, and the marshes of the free and open country. Sundown. Behind the wall of grave, pro- tective mountains, the sun sinks slowly. The evening chores are being done-cows are being milked, sheep bleat until given their share of grain, horses Stamp in the stalls, and the barn cat

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LAUREL ir W.. what Jimuuha. meano AMERICA -I reserve this phrase for my native land: Some think-Scotch, Irish, but I, American! Genella Moore '45 -M is for Myself, whom you may not know? I am not very fast, nor yet very slow. Virginia Webber '45 -E stands first for Educationg This is the up-building of any nation. Wilma Kyes '45 R is for Religion, in which we all may chooseg Since this is His war, we'll never lose. Barbara Ialbert '45 l is for I and Independence, But more for Borders not lined with fence. Pauline Berry '45 -C is to every girl and every boy, A Childhood filled with utter ioyl Eleanor Hammond '44 -Americans have learned they cannot rest And protect the Land they love the best. Irene Paradis '45 AMERICA MEANS America means a lot of things, From freedom of religion to oyster stew, To a chocolate angel-cake That tastes like walking through A flavored fog with an open mouth. It means memories, Fresh within the mind - Memories of that first County Fair When Grandpa took us to Find The joy of a merry-go-round. It means a cottage Nestled between the hills, Where we find relaxation From the madness that fills The working-day. It means great men, great deeds - The Liberty Bell, Grant's tomb, Guadalcanal - Symbolic of the preservation of that way of life Which will forever spell America to us all. Mary Pinkham '44 MAP OF MY COUNTRY lWith thanks to Prof. Iohn I-Iolmesj The map of my country is all hills, The little winding road that goes up and down, The cog railroad up Mt. Katahdin, The pin-dot lakes ioined by ribbon-like streams, Dwarfed by white frosted peaks. Boy Scout hikes To that little cabin on the hillside, Ice fishing trips with scalding hot cocoa, I-Iot dogs and tilt-o-whirls at the county fair, Bowling and popcorn, over-crowded toboggans, Roasted corn ears on a Fire by the lakeside. The maps of other people are not like mine. They have no picture of naked boys in the Sandy, Or walking boom-logs in the Kennebec. The hills and mountains on my map Would be marked with a cross for a campfire spot And a line for a hike to the top. Iust a rocky thread of the sea is shown, With a mark on a weather-beaten rock where I watched Fishermen's boats put-putting in and out of the harbor. And the rheumatic steamboat with t.he whole crew sing- ing Sweet Adeline, their voices cracked by salt water. The map of my native country would show hayfields VVith men sweating under huge forkfuls of hay, I-Iurrying because that speck of cloud might be a shower, My map also would show snowdrifts With car rooftops rising white like a frozen botde of milk. There are cities on my map, but not as my father names them -- Auburn. Augusta, Bangor, Bath, Biddeford, Brewer, Calais - And all the others alphabetically. I have a tree To remember this village by, and a small sand pile To remind me of the hours spent building castles And dykes and moats. This city is marked By a capitol building whose depths I never understood. At the bottom of my map I would have the key. X is where our boat went down and one man nearly drowned: O is the lakeside camp, my resort for three summersg ' is the place where the sailboat turned overg T reminds me of five terrifying hours lost in Black Brook Bog: 1 stands for hunting trips in the hemlock of Dead River. Thus my map would be marked with these my symbols, Which only I could decipher, For this is my native country. Dewey Richards '45

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'A' LAUREL 'A' and her kittens crawl from the hay loft for their dish of warm milk. Twilight. Work's all done, and a busy day is at its end. As the farmer passes from the barn up to the house, he pauses a moment to look up into the dusk. He smiles when he hears the croaking of the frogs, striking up their serenade from swamp and bog. The farmer continues to the house, finds his slippers and the Ierrey Bulletin, and sits by the fireplace for an evening rest. Then dawn creeps through the hours. Stars fade, the cattle stir, and dew settles upon the meadow grass. The farmer starts his busy day at daybreak when other worlds are still asleep. How near is this to monotony? And the song goes on and on, imploring me to pause and listen to its strange, harmonious melody. Listen to it I will, for it is my world and my life. Rachel Luce '46 COUNTRY SCHOOLHOUSE I-IE other day when I was out walking I visited the school of my former days. That day I was feeling very thankful for the American way of life, so I thought of how I had enjoyed those days. This schoolhouse is not the original, for that was taken down when the road was moved Fifty years ago. This McCrillis Corner Schoolhouse is a white structure, its foundation is made of the bricks of the other. There are broad steps with railings on each side leading up to the only entrance, with a door similar to that of an old inn. The yard surrounding it contains a few pines, alders in the back, and three swings and a teeter in front. fAll are worn and need repair., In the days when I went there, there were two ledges. Two wonderful ledges that shared many fond hopes. While playing on them my grand- mother, mother, and finally myself, each in turn, built castles in the air. Later, when the road was moved again, these ledges were blasted and now the road runs where they were. The schoolhouse stands in one of the four cor- ners on a little knoll. On the other two sides a board fence separates it from the pasture be- side it. I went inside and remembered the desks where I used to sit. fThere are 24 desks., There was the old, huge round stove which serves as a furnace. There, the piano, the book- case, the primary's little chairs and table, and the three blackboards f two of which are not in very good conditionj. I sat in the back seat where I had when I was in the eighth grade and looked outside. I saw cows grazing in the pasture beside the school. There, many times, in the winter, I had slid down the hill, hauled my sled back, then re- peated the procedure many times till the bell rang. Then, what a scramble! Over that board fence, everyone rushed at once. Then I went across the road where I used to skate. There was no rink but once in a while, when the weather was right, ice would form. As I started to go home, I turned for one last look. The peacefulness of the atmosphere swept over me. Then and there, I thanked God for this and every little white or red school- house, that fine old emblem of The American Way of Life. Eleanor Hammond '44 .9nReuiew- U. S. FOREIGN POLICY VValter Lippman ANY critics are of the opinion that Wal- ter Lippmann's outstanding brilliancy is exemplified by his awakening book, U. S. Foreign Policy. This book reveals an author of keen intellect, well versed in world affairs and politics, who is beginning to shatter the illusions held by the American people for more than forty years. Mr. Lippmann was born in New York City in 1889, educated in private schools in New Yorkg he graduated from Harvard in 1910. His first book, Preface to Politics, was pub- lished when the author was twenty-three years old. Already he had begun his long and suc- cessful literary career. Mr. Lippmann has spent many years in newspaper work, at one time he was associate editor of Everybody's, a picture magazine. Since 1913 he has been employed as a special writer to the New York Herald