Higgins Classical Institute - Scroll Yearbook (Charleston, ME)

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H. C. I.SCR.OLL 21 h il- I I up a canyon and through a high-cut by what lay before them. It was the very ob- ject of their years of wandering and search- ing. It was the wondrous Valley of Winter Tropics was but an hoiu s travel down the mountainside. Truly, this valley was appropriately named, for snow covered mountains rose steeply on all sides. The valley was about thirty miles long and it averaged about fif- teen miles in width. Throughout was a pro- digious growth of ferns and jungle plants of all kinds. The temperature was very high and a great deal of precipitation fell. No- wlld animals were present except a form -or bird which had four legs and a trunk like an elephant. This animal co-uld fly very fast and it made noises very much like the mocking bird. This led to the theory that other birds and animals must have been in the Valley at some time because this bird imitated all the other birds and animals kno-wn. The explorers plotted their position with what instruments they had, very carefully, checked their course homeward, and collect-- ed some plant material to take for exhibi- tion. These hardy men were just ready to leave for the sub-zero temperatures when Koran contracted malaria and died. Sam Little then made his way back to civilization with his wondrous tale, his plant life, and the position of the Valley of Win- ter Tropics. When professors, in whom Little confided, plotted his position on a map, Little was astounded to see that his figures designated a point in South America, high in the Andes. Of course this threw Little's story off completely and he was proclaimed a liar. The explanation given by him was that the stars were exactly the same as the stars in the corresponding point in the Southern Hemisphere, and as he had to use the stars in plotting his position on a map he would be placed in So-uth America. Throughout the ensuing years a few men searched for this valley after hearing I.ittle's story, but never has anyone re-dis- c-:+vered the Valley of Winter Tropics. N. Soule '45 THE HOUSE OF SEVEN GABLES Despite the vari-:Aus disadvantages of war- time living, my parents, last spring, agreed that my knowledge of historical points of interest around Boston was. like that of all Bost:nians, quite lacking. The result of the agreement was an unusual tour of Boston and its neighboring vicinity. Of the two weeks entirely devoted to sightseeing, one cf the most interesting lo- calities that I visited was Salem, the city of Witchcraft. It was in this city that I saw one of the most, exciting, unforgettable points c-f interest: The House of Seven Gables. As I swung off the paved highway into a tiny narrow street hardly wide enough for one car to pass another, I was moved by the contrast of the neighborhood which I had just entered with the one I had left behind. At the far end of the tiny street I co-uld see an odd-shaped, weather-beaten house and realizing that this must be the famous House of Seven Gables I drove toward it. The first thing that drew my attention as the car came to a stop opposite the house was the unpainted fence through which could be seen the famous Salem Elms, and beyond, the gray-colored structure. Pro- ceeding through the gate and toward the house I viewed a spectacular piece of archi- tecture. I noticed the large gable facing the street and walked around the house to counf, the remaining six gables. Thus satisfying my curiosity the first thing. My inventory hav- ing been completed, my attention was drawn to the small, somewhat out of date door that was in the front gable. As II again walked ar:-und the house I noticed the black moss which covered the roof, the var- ious slzed chimneys, and numerous cdd shaped windows in the building. The grounds surrounding this edifice were apparently taken care of by a caretaker, be- cause the grass had been recently cut, flower gardens were neat and the hedges trimmed. I wandered amc-ng the many tiny gardens for a few minutes but soon had turned back again to the little front dc-or, wondering how I could see the inside of the house. Upon trying the door I found it locked and in the corner of the window a small card-Visitors 2-5 p.m.-It was 5:30 pm. and my chances of seeing the inside of the house were lost en- tirely. But just to see the -outside of The House of Seven Gables was an advantage, and I left it with many thoughts that I have never lost. J. Peirce '45 THIS IS MUSIC? Do your eyes fill with tears when you hear Dlmpled Dorothy's Dourful Demise howled and sung dirgelike into your atten- tive ears? Mine don't, but my blood curdles and my hair stands out horizontally. Or perhaps you laugh uproariously to the words of Jumping Joe, The Sixgun Slim cr so-me such epic tidbit Ctwenty-nine and one-half verses-the author had no further inspiratlonh of the grand old West. My emotions here are unprintably vile. As you have guessed I do not care for

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20 H. C. I.SC'ROLL s-1 --- PASSING THROUGH Perhaps the most interesting scene in any large city is the hustle and bustle of a rail- road station. The business man, the service man, the traveler, the vacationist, and people from nearly every walk of life, are represented. I waited nearly four hours for my train one day and during that time I took notes on what I saw. 'I'he door opened from the right hand side of the room and on each side was a group of ten rows of seats facing the opposite group. The people walked down the aisle between them and up to the ticket booths. Immediately beside the doors were three telephone booths constantly in use. Through the door flowed a constant stream of people. I watched two very well dressed business men, distinguished by their briefcases, walk half way across the floor, pause to talk business, and then, when a vacancy appeared, step forward to buy their tickets. A cabby rushed in to make a phone callg he knew his number and didn't waste time looking it up. An old man, probably a small time business man, or maybe a doctor or a dentist also walked up to a booth, went in, and then remembering he didn't know the number he was to call, came back out, went to a window with a directory and spent at least five minutes looking up the number. Four well dressed women, perhaps averag- ing thirty years cf age, came through the door. They appeared to be sure -of them- selves as if they had traveled many times before. I imagined them as going to or re- turning from a convention of some so-rt. A sailor and two girls appeared. One I knew was his sister, the other his wife or sweetheart. The girls sto-:id together talking while he purchased his ticket. Then they all sat down for a last talk together. A train pulled in and hundreds of passen- gers thronged into the station. It did my heart good to watch the embraces of sweet- hearts, mothers and fathers as they wel- comed their servicemen home on leave. I no- ticed one extremely tall soldier, a private, as he walked through the throng flanked on one side by his father and on the other by his sister while behind him walked his mother with tears of joy streaming down her face. His father was a proud as a pea- cock, and why not! Of course there was the incoming business man always hurrying to reach the door be- fore someone else if he could and rushing outside into the maze of the city tc- lose himself in. the moving tides of people. Finally the crowd resumed its normal size and as I looked around I saw the same faces I had seen before the train came in. Of course there were new ones but the old ones still remained. A girl and her mother Walked in and I could imagine her returning to scho-ol from a vacation or a week-end home. Six sailors made a lot of noise when they came in. They probably had been on leave and were returning to their base. They rep- resented friendship and co-operation in the highest degree as they slapped each other on the back, laughed and joked as they left the social life for a, while. Suddenly over the loudspeaker came the announcers voice, Train leaving for somewhere in seven minutes cn track eight at the east end of the station . That was my train so I picked up my suitcase, the magazine I had bought to read on the train, and went out onto the plat- form and from there into the train, just another passenger, passing through. R. Cameron '45 Tl-IE VALLEY OF WINTER TROPICS During the days and years of the gold rush into the Klondike, late in the nine- teenth century, there were many stories told and invented and then retold to the civilized worldg these were prolific, erroneous as such tales are apt to- be. The tale of the Winter Tropics was one which aroused much curiosity and also dis- belief. 'I'he theme or leading topic stated that a valley, either in the Yukon or eastern Alaska, was nestled high in the mountains and that this huge valley was exactly the opposite of its surroundings. This basin was said to be exactly like the tropics in every Way! Graham Koran and Sam Little, soldiers of fortune, were so captivated by this yarn that they began to prepare an expedition by which they would explore a huge amount of territory in North America, from Hudson Bay to the coasts cf Alaska, in search of the Valley of Winter Tropics. Koran and Little even went to the extent of consulting geol- ogists to ascertain if such a place could exist. Early in the spring -of nineteen-hundred and seven these two men made their way northward and began their very arduous search in the great Northwest. Months and months wculd pass before these explorers entered a trading post. Always their answer was No in regard to the valley but never did their ardour become dampened. Late in the summer of nineteen-hundred and ten, Kc-ran and Little, wearied by fight- ing sickness and the hardships of the wil- derness, were about ready to admit how extreme a presumption their ideas had been. One day they were amazed as they passed

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22 H. C. I.SC'ROLL 1- : f:- ,Q . if-5 these Western sagas of song that tell a story iand what a story? of some everyday CI sh-:Auld hope notl occurrence. They have a most unpleasant effect on my gl:-cd nature: I'become criminally inclined. You may feel that way too- -like murdering the tall tale teller of such trashy junk. For the benefit of the unenlightened, let mc quote a bit of a Cowboy song ffor that is the appelation they have given for want were finer of something better, if such a thing possible! I may miss a few of the points in my laborious description but even ardent adherents of that type of music will admit that I know plenty about the subject. We find our combination vocalist and in- trumentalist, two terms being used locsely, and watch him prepare for this rendition. He looks harmless enough, dressed like a house-fire in the attic with the gr:-und floor splitting from lack of support. He sings without music, as you'll soon learn. Attached to a strap over his shoulder is his musical instrument which he calls a gueetar but which we know is a, guitar by its shape. His face is contorted by expectancy of what is to ccmeg his mouth is -o-pen to a most re- vealing extentg his palate quivers with the first notes that will come our way soon. The number with which we shall be honored is a most solemn, sad, almost re- ligious ballad c-f western life: When Grand- pa hit Grandma with the Shovel, She Snuffed Out Like a Candle. Please don't cry yetg you haven't even heard it. With a 'I'wang, Twangf' a Twang-a-twang, and four twangy twangs we are precipitated into the solo. This lack of introduction is sup- posed to hide the fact that the recitalist Knows few variations of his Twangs. Whether for not we suffer or gain by the brief overture is debatable. But less talk and more description. In a tremendously sad voice our Lone Cedar Troubadour commences the piece. He has some tune, in fact, a definite -one which ex- tends to the end of the line. This same tune is repeated almost unchanged for the re- mainder of the wo-rk. However, with each successive verse we feel more unsettled. Right about the thirteenth verse people about us who have been a perfect audience, rapt in attentive awe at the hidden beauty of the opus, begun to sob hysterically. The raving of the homicidal maniac of a grand- father over the result of his brutal beating of his wife has moved them deeply. They weep convulsively. We listen as the horren- dcus tale unfolds. Oh, grampa how could you do it? The Children, so sweet, they asked. How could you belt poor grammy dead? We loved her to the last. Oh, young'uns kind, I do not know Why your grammy I did hit- With my best new shovelg It made a dent in it. On the twenty-second stanza we realize that the tale has been sung out. Now from that tearful dramatic song we expect tc- be released. But no-comes now the crowning event of the occasion. A series of tremulous whacks at the already sorely tried guitar forewarns us of a coloratura-like glorious finale. We get more than we expect. Our Lone Spruce Minstrel opens up ibut def- initelyil and belches forth a jumble of Yo- de-lay-eo-o's and various other unintelli- gible mad cries that oover the length and breadth of the known musical scale. We also hear some other sounds that must be mentioned as they form an integral part of the opus. These are indescribable wails of excruciating pain. The distorted face and figure of the victim Cat least, he is one? are proof of this. Just look. Then in a cataclys- mic c-:-mbination of voice, twangs, overtones and undertcnes we are precipitated from this sample work of art by a grand slam- bang twang on the gueetar to end all such twangs . And high time, too, you have to admit! My main reason for disliking this particu- lar type of music is obvious. The lyrics are absurd, poorly written, and of no conse- quence. Their mournful qualities are no-t apparent to me but some find these ex- tremely sad. I recall a song in particular, entitled, Old Shep, which ,I first heard when I was seven. I was bewildered. When I saw my friends weeping I couldn't connect the trashy lyrics with their plight. However, not wishing to appear different, I wept toc-. the next time I heard Old Shep. I haven't heard this since but I have been brutally exposed to -other similar works. I weep no more. A wave of disgust sweeps over me at the poor quality of the music and the atro- cious grammar embodied in the lyrics. How intelligent people listen is beyond me. I don't think really intelligent people can bear to listen. My reasons all add up to nothing, which is just exactly what these sings avail and merit. Exposed as we are to this type of music via. the radio especially, we may be thankful for the button marked OfI ! P. L. Bishop '45 l-ii..-li TRUE CONFESSION With great trepidation, I climbed on the bus that eventful morning. I was bound for the dentist's, who shall for obvious reasons be called Doctor X. I had been to Doctor X o-nly once before having previously been