Fryeburg Academy - Academy Bell Yearbook (Fryeburg, ME)

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THE ACADEMY BELL 27 THE BRIEF LIFE OF A SATIN SLIPPER I, a pink satin slipper, had only the night before been set in the redecorated window of an exclusive Fifth Avenue shop. I had been placed on the foot of a wax model. I remained there until late the following day when a lady chanced to pass and stop for a moment to admire me. A little while later I was taken from the model and tried on by the lady who had admired me in the window. I heard her give the address, H25 East Forty-Sixth Street, Suite 7. I little knew at the time of my arrival what would be my fate. My new owner had already changed her costume and was wearing a gown of pink. I soon realized that I was on the foot of a living person and not a waxen one. Stepping from a limousine I was escorted to a pier, and then up a gang plank to a seemingly large ship which proved to be only a yacht, where a gay party of people had gathered, Dancing started immediately upon our arrival, and at once I was crushed unmercifully by my mistress' escortg for the first time my attention was turned to him who appeared to be host of the affair. Cocktails were served continuously, and this I figured was the cause of my being trodden upon. From the comments I learned that we were well outside of the harbor. My owner begged her escort to take her to the deck Where, after seating herself in a deck chair, she removed me from her foot which had become blistered. I grieved, real- izing I had caused her so much pain. She held me in her hand for a moment, and for no reason at all, he who was with her, grabbed me from her and hurled me overboard. I heard a shriek, but it was too late. All night I floated and the next morning I found myself beneath a wharf, floating with a broken toy horse, a bit of a letter, a dirty white glove- other things which had been tossed out of people's lives. LEAH C. MCI NTYRE.

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26 THE ACADEMY BELL ON WRITING HOME Having been at school for several years-away from home which still remains the source of my financial sup- plies-I feel that the subject I have chosen is very familiar. Perhaps some of you may even have experienced the same difliculties. The first step is to select a rather plain piece of writing paper, that the folks at home may not criticize your spending money foolishly on envelopes with fancy linings. However, if your parents are Scotch, a gay plaid lining in the envelope might be received with smiles of appreciation. Next, you write the heading, slowly, though, to give you more time to think of a proper opening sentence. With pen poised in mid-air you decide that topics of the weather have no direct connection with money, so might be used to avert the inevitable suspicion. The weather has been fair, so that discussion occupies no great space before being exhausted. Now, must the money question be brought up-the thoughts of it give you a nervous feeling which is mistaken for hunger. That makes you think of mother's cooking and -well, why not kill two birds with one stone and mention, that since the food here has not been very good lately, you would not mind getting a box from home? To make this hint more effective you flatter the lady of the house and fervently remark that you have not tasted any pie as good as hers since you were home on your last vacation. Secretly satisfied and elated by your ability to compli- ment and flatter, you now feel that there is nothing about which you are afraid to write. Encouraged by this feeling, you begin to write boldly, Say, isn't it about time you sent me some more money? The words stare you in the face! They are written, though, and you can not erase them. Such audacity must be at least partially remedied, so you make some joke about it, and spend the next half hour telling about all the basketball games, good movies, and dances there have been to go to, and end by explaining, also, that roommates frequently have the habit of using up your toothpaste or hair tonic. You believe that, of course, the family will realize that all this takes money, and you close the letter feeling re- lieved that the deed is done. The great task of writing home is over once more. ELIZABETH RUNDLETT, '30,

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28 THE ACADEMY BELL . vial: 1 1011 1 :nin:n:n3xxio11 ic 1 mia 1021111 9:0 0:4 10102111r1311:1.2111111:11niniuxxwiixioirriuioiuozw Can a liking for poetry be taught? This is a question that is often asked. In order to reach a satisfactory con- clusion we must ask ourselves another question. What is our attitude toward poetry? Is it a lboresome subject forced upon us by our teachers, or is it a meaningless jumble of words, the rhythm of which strikes pleasantly on our ears? Possibly it is a song, the verses of which bring a thrill other- wise found in life itself. Poetry is another form of life. The verses of Keats, Shelley, and Goldsmith portray pic- tures of life. To the average student poetry is a necessary evil which has to be endured. . The first mentioned attitude is the characteristic of the average high school student. Let us try to discover why this view persists. I believe that the trouble may spring from two causes: first, the student is afraid of being con- sidered effeminate by his classmates, second, he has not read enough to find the type of poetry that appeals to him. Few boys today find a great deal of pleasure in the poetry of Walt Whitman. What boy, however, can read Kipling's poetry without being thrilled? The poems taught in the schools today comprise such a variety that everyone should find something of interest among them. The Ancient Mariner, Sohrab and Rus- tum, and The Lady of the Lake are a few of the pieces of poetry read. What more could fbe asked? Adventure, love, hate, war, peace and sensational things all may be found in the books just named. What then is the trouble? If it does not lie in books, not in teachers, despite the arguments I hear advanced by our sterling teachers, not in the pupil, where must we look? To me the answer is simple. As I see it, poetry is not a study, but an emotion. One cannot be taught emotions. He either has them or has not. F. FOSTER CROWELL, '30,