Fitchburg High School - Boulder Yearbook (Fitchburg, MA)

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Horcalis was brightcMiin up the dreary ])()lar ni ht with her brilliant flashes of golden lij ht. Contrasting sharply with this warinthful glow, there were lined up against the horizon eold and dreary mountains of iee. In the foreground was a granite monu- ment and two flags waving above it. One was the flag of our eountry and the other the flag of our elass. These two had never fluttered in the breeze together before. I read the following inseription upon the monument: This is the exact location of the North Pole. Discovered by the Shanks Expedition, Au , ust 23, 1918. We were the first that ever burst Into this silent sea. W. R. Shanks, Captain. G. N. Anderson, First Lieutenant. Dr. Harlow, Scientist. Foster, Trapper. Neylon, J. V. Keating, E. O. Andrews. I next saw the assembh hall gorgeously decorated with bunt- ing and flowers and the seats packed with an eager crowd of students. The principal, William Keating, had just seated him- self after announcing that Signor Madogain, the celebrated Italian artist, would sing. Presently he appeared in full dress, accompa- nied b ' the pianist. Mademoiselle Helene Peirce, as it was announced. She seated herself at the piano and began to pla} the prelude. Signor Madogain cleared his throat and then began to sing in a deep bass voice such as I had never heard before, but as nearh as I could describe it, it sounded like the distant rum- bling of thunder. I next saw myself before a circus tent. Newcomb was perched upon a high stool, cr dng out in his thundering voice “Right this way, ladies and gents! Here 3 311 get 3 our tickets for the show. OnH half a dollar to see all the wonders of the world; children half fare.” The inside of the tent then came before m3 C3 es. All around were the freaks in attitudes best adapted to displa3 their eccen- 16

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tening attentively to the speaker, who was vehemently exhorting the audienee to a life of politieal aetivity, and loudly extolling woman’s rights. The speaker was, in truth. Miss Smith, but what a metamorphosis had taken plaee! Her voiee was no longer the seareely audible whisper of the Latin elass, but instead it was loud and elear and reaehed every eorner of the vast auditorium. The seene ehanged. I was now looking upon a seeluded vale. A little brook was merrily rippling along, and among the trees I eould hear the singing of the happy birds. Before me was a house, or rather a eabin, whieh looked as if it were in need of the most thorough repair. Nearly every pane in the two windows was broken and the holes were stuffed with rags or paper. The door was nearly off its hinges and was leaning over against a stone whieh stood for a support. In the doorway sat a man dressed in saekeloth and eovered with ashes. This poor penitent hermit, as he appeared to be, was no other than John Ryan, who to atone for his eleven demerits had thus seeluded himself in this uninhabited spot. I next beheld a wielder of brooms standing in the eorridor ol floor 2, in a heated diseussion with Miss Duft ' ey, who was evi- dently at present “ institutrice de fran ais.” At the beginning of the eontest both seemed to hold equal advantage, but it was soon elear that the woman was the better of the two. Champ- ney, for it was he, Anally spoke only in short gasps and in flve minutes relapsed wholly into silenee. The protoseope is again turned on. The seene is in the eourt house, and the eounsel for the defense, John MeCarthy, has just risen for his final effort. Argument after argument follows in quiek succession. No point is lost. The judge, jury, and speeta- tors are alike spellbound. The prisoner on trial for plagiarism is one of these literary looking individuals, who are eontinually run- ning their fingers through their hair, presumably to stir up thoughts. As I observed him earefull} the old familiar features of Russell Walker seemed to take shape. I eould hardly believe that Wellington was judge and that Harold Chandler was the plaintiff, now beeome eelebrated for his talent in turning out verse both pathetie and sentimental. His eounsel, Leslie Mossman, was doing his best, but luek apparently was not on his side. After this came a polar scene. In the background the Aurora 15

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tricities. George Miller, the giant, was standing beside an ele- phant and towered above the beast by as inueh as an ordineiry man towers above an ox. Miss Beinis was swallowing swords. It might be as well to say here that she was aeenstomed from childhood to swallow at one gulp cakes of sweet ehoeolate whieh she borrowed from Messrs. Andrews and Foster for the oeeasion. In the eenter of the tent was a Kamehatkan village trans- ported into the eireus. The buildings consisted of a dozen tents made of skins, not high enough to permit even a hunehbaek to stand up straight. A group of half-naked ehildren were playing about the tents, and in the foreground two men were sitting elose to an open fire solemnly smoking. They were dressed from head to foot in bearskins and on their heads they wore caps of mink furs. In spite of paint and grease, I could make out the characteristic features of Brownell and Kangas. The latter now and then would utter a monosyllabic click, while the other would reply with a vague movement of the head. These at first seemed to be the only men about the place. I concluded that the rest had probably gone hunting or fishing. But there were many women about the place, who like the rest of their sex were chat- tering continuously, in harsh and discordant tones. Among them I recognized still more of my acquaintances. Miss Gallup was gazing intently upon the giant. Miss Dormin was cooking fish in a stone pot, and Miss Nellie Smith was superintending operations with profuse suggestions. “Cupid” Merriman was here also. Around him was a group of women receiving instruction in needle- work, and to my great astonishment, Misses Miller, Wheeler and Minott were serenely smoking. This whole scene gave me such a feeling of peace and quiet, that I was sorely tempted to withdraw to Kamchatka and end my days in its restful environment. Not far from this village, a young lady was walking a tight rope, utterly unmindful of the fatal abyss below. At first I could not see her face, but as she turned around, I could see the smiling face of Miss Desmond, now listed as “Mile. Marie Desmonde.” Suddenly my attention was attracted to the other end of the tent by a great uproar. A policeman was scuffling with a man who was making desperate efforts to get away. But he was soon 17