Fryeburg Academy - Academy Bell Yearbook (Fryeburg, ME)

Page 31 text:

THE ACADEMY BELL THE DAILY GRIND First period comes English History And oh, what a bother it isg Right after music comes Algebra two, A subject that everyone fears. English isn't quite so bad And neither is French two: But typing actually drives me mad, A subject that I never can do. But after you stop and think it over, School life isn't half so bad: And when you come back to old F. A. It really makes you glad. VIVIAN CLEMONS, '31 MY DOG I had a little dog, His name was Mikey And every time he went to town . There was sure to be a fight. One cool September morning As we were walking down the street, We chanced upon a bull dog With a great big piece of meat. The fight was fast and furious, Although it was a shame- The way my little Michael Chewed that dog, till he was tame. CLIFTON SMITH, '32 Miss Piper has a parrot All he says is won't. I said Some pet, Miss Piper. She said, Some do, I d0n't. She also has a fiivver The rattle overwhelms all talkg And if you're going to ride, It's much safer for you to walk. MORTON FLINT, '31

Page 30 text:

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,

Page 32 text:

THE ACADEMY BELL LATIN CLASS I'll write about our Latin class, It's really quite a scream. We hold our little Caesar book And try so bright to seem. Periphrastic, says Miss Johnson While we blankly stare. For the hundredth time she tells Its use and why it's there. When we are told to translate, We, oh, so glibly, equote. fMiss Johnson finds in the back of the book It's all written out in a note.J Some days we don't pay attention in class And when we are asked to recite, We look and look, the place is gone, What would you do in that plight? We get our hopes up, now and then For a lesson, short and sweet. Lo and behold! When she gives it out In length it can't be beat. If we should all have our lesson done This is what Miss Johnson would say, I know that this is too good to be true They'll be terrible the following day. But I must do my next day's work Or the class' reputation, I'll kill, And you'd read tomorrow, in this poem A chapter, sadder still. MARION BARKER, '32 PARODY ON THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET How clear in my mind are the pranks of my boyhood When I was a kid and just starting to grow. The strings in my pockets, the fish hooks and matches, The bruises and cuts and the bandaged-up toe, The crows and the blue jays and chattering squirrels. The sling shots and arrows I used for a gun. The switching I got when I brought down a victim That old tingling switch! Say, it wasn't much fun. JAMES W. MERRILL, '30