Holbrook High School - Echo Yearbook (Holbrook, MA)

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THE ECHO 11 “You’re showing me how hopeless it is, Sheila, but I couldn’t let you be cooped up in a convent. No, never.” “Oh, quit the cave-man act, and let’s try to puzzle things out,” said Sheila smiling into Don’s clouded eyes and set lips. “But how? You, yourself, just gave every reason why things are hopeless for us.” “No, I didn’t. You know my Dad is a great out-door man. He just loves sports. If you could redeem yourself in the football game, tomorrow, I’m sure he’d let me go with you and at least postpone my visit to the convent. Dad really likes you, Don, only he thinks you’ve got too many high ideas. After all if he could see you pull your team through to a close game, I’m sure he’d change his feelings. I could persuade him to see the team.” Sheila had been watching the fellow’s face with eagerness and wit- nessed the change in his features. He had accepted her challenge. She knew he’d carry it through. The players were all ready. The blue col- ored flag of Yale was flashing throughout the stadium as Don wearing the same color, led the fellows on the field in a run. What a cheer! Flags and pennants arose fer- vently. The game was a close one. The score was tie. Everyone was excited. Only half a minute to play. One touchdown would sure- ly determine the winner. The ball was kicked along the path of Bill Troy. He stepped aside. Don caught it and ran. Faster and faster he went down the field. Hie tripped and fell — just over the goal line. The gun went off. The game was over. Don had made a touchdown. He had carried out Sheila’s plans, but he knew it was through a true pal, that he was able to redeem himself. Edna Magee, ’34. GOLD The rain beat heavily down on Bob Mason, a young man, slight, tall, and well built, who was stooping over a pan which he kept dip- ping into the clear bubbling water of a tiny stream. Suddenly out of the rain and wind a rifle shot echoed up and down the valley. Bob dropped face down into the stream, now scarlet red. The next day found Bob in his little shanty by the stream, his dog. Dago, rapping his furry tail up and down on the rough floor of the one room. Bob spoke, “You saved my life. Dago, by pulling me out of the stream when I fainted from that shot in the shoulder yesterday, and you deserve more meat, but the cupboard is bare. Who shot me? Was it Moley?” “Arft,” (yes in the dog language) barked the collie. “That skunk; I’ll get even,” he said as he rose from the plain wooden bench where he was sitting, looking at a picture of Ellen Joel. “ ‘ Play fair. And the one who comes back the richest before two years I’ll marry.’ Those were her words. Dago, and now fifteen months have passed. I can see her as she said those words to Pat Moley and me. I wish you could see her. Dago; she is about five feet five, is thin, has dark hair and blue eyes.” Both Bob Mason and Pat Moley loved Ellen Joel. Ellen promised she would marry the one who came back to her the richest in two years. It was 1849, and the California coast was being searched by thousands in hope that they could get some of that yellow metal called gold. Both Pat Moley and Bob started for the “Land of Gold,” as it was advertised by steamship companies. Pat stole and hitch-hiked his way to save money; Bob’s conscience kept him straight. To hinder Bob, Pat often blamed crimes on him, but Bob never could be proved guilty. Pat, knowing that drinking was not allowed on the ship which took them by way of Cape Horn to California, tried many times to dis- solve liquor in Bob’s food and coffee. A drunkard was thrown overboard on a raft in punishment for drinking. Bob was shot at once before, but luck was with him, and he was not scratched. He knew it was Pat Moley who shot him the first time because when he looked around, he saw him sneaking through the bushes with a rifle in his hands. Pat Moley was about Bob’s age, around twenty-six. He was sneaking and dishonest in his ways. Side by side they reminded one of Mutt and Jeff. Bob was tall, and Pat very short. Both were good looking and always neat. Bob never wrote anything about Pat in his letters to Ellen, knowing that if he did write anything of Pat’s crooked ways, Ellen would not believe him because back in New York Pat was a model young man. Two days after Bob was shot, with his arm in a sling, which he made himself out of an old shirt, he and faithful Dago went out in search of berries. It had stopped rain- ing for the first time in nine days. Bob had just a little rabbit meat in his cabin and no other food. He could not hunt for any birds or animals because his shoulder pained him when he tried to shoot a gun. After search- ing for two or three hours, he concluded that the rain, which had fallen so heavily for the last week or so, must have knocked all the berries off the bushes. Bob could not buy food from any store because the nearest vil- lage was twenty-five miles away. Pat was Bob’s only neighbor within twenty miles, and he would not dare go near Pat. “Well, Dago,” said Bob as he went to bed

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10 THE ECHO THE WINNER “Oh boy, is my dome a merry-go-round,” muttered Don Dickens as he turned his tousled blond head on the pillow. “What time did you get in, anyway?” asked Bill, his room-mate, pulling on a pair of neatly pressed trousers. “Day time, I guess,” responded the young man reaching for a cigarette on a small table. However, in doing so he knocked the table over, upsetting twenty-five pictures of smiling young girls. “Cut it out. Will ya?” asked Bill with a frown. “The Dean will be up here in a minute, and if he sees this mess and you in bed, hell give you the ‘bad boy’.” “The Dean!” said the culprit with a start that landed him out of bed and into his clothes. “Sure, he conversed with Sheila this morn- ing, and she called about ten minutes ago to tell you he found out that you and she were in an automobile accident coming home last night.” “Oh, cut the talking. Will ya? And get busy,” said Don kneeling on the fioor with his clothes half on, picking up pictures and throwing them into a drawer which was al- ready overflowing with shaving creams and neckties. That’s the way Mr. Dunn found them as he paused in the open doorway. “Eh-hem,” he began as the two boys turned around with a start. “Oh, good morning, Dean,” responded Don with his everlasting captivating smile that revealed even white teeth. However, the only reply was a short hateful grunt that came from cruelly set lips as he surveyed the speaker. “Young man, you may think you can rule my daughter by your good looks, but you needn’t try them on me,” he went on. “Why, er-er. I’m sorry,” exclaimed the cul- prit erasing the smile from his lips but not from his eyes. “My daughter was a very pretty and respectable girl until you began putting silly notions into her head,” went on the stern cultured parent. “I’ll say she’s pretty. Why you know. Dean, I think she’s the swellest girl I’ve ever met, ’ replied the youth as he tied his shoes, smil- ing down at them unknowingly to the stern gray-haired man who stood with clenched fists. “Young man, ...” “Oh, call me Don for old times sake. Dean, because after all. I’ve been here three and a half years,” interrupted the chap as he went on rubbing shaving lather on his chin. “I said ‘young man,’ and I meant it. Now, you listen to me.” “I’m listening,” said Don nonchalantly. “You stop shaving until after you’ve heard what I have to say,” commanded Dean Dunn. “Oh, that wouldn’t be keeping up to your theory of economics because you know. Dean, there’s nothing so hard to do as to try to shave off dry soap, and I know it will be dry by the time you’re through,” he added with another of his irresistible smiles. “I’m going to have you thrown off the football team,” came a harsh report as the Dean slammed the door and made his exit. “Now, the next actor please take the cur- tain call,” laughed Don looking at solemn- faced Bill. “You can laugh. But what will your peopD say about your being off the team?” respond- ed the serious-minded. “Don’t worry. Did you ever see a cat get rid of his whiskers? Well, that’s how hard it’s going to be for that ‘old fogey’ to g ' t me off the team.” “Oh, yeh! How about the accident last night? Does that affect your conduct? Couldn’t he claim you were tip sy?” asked the worried pal. “No, he can’t because he and everyone else know that I never drink. The only fun that I have is dancing.” “There’s another thing against you. Your breaking training rules when there’s a game coming tomorrow. Oh, I wouldn’t worry a bit, Don, because you know what the Dean doesn’t say, the coach will.” “You’re encouraging,” returned his pal with a smile. “Oh, gee, I wish you’d be serious.” “Am I serious?” shouted Don as a small timid knock was heard on the door. He ran to open the door for a young, beautifully dressed girl. “Why the glad rags, Sheila? ’ asked Don as he escorted her to the one and only easy chair while Bill Troy made his exit. “Oh, Don, this is serious. Do you know what Dad’s going to do?” “Now, listen to me, young lady, I don ' t even care,” retorted the fellow shaking the girl’s shoulders gently. “He’s going to send me to the convent,” came the words that seemed to chill the air. “Huh — what did you say?” came the startled reply. The girl, however, was crying, and her sob- bing seemed to tear the heart out of Don, who had become the image of disillusion. “Well, he can’t do it. I won ' t let him. Listen, you and I could elope.” “No, we can’t. That would break my mother’s heart, and I couldn’t bear to see her suffer, and besides, your family wouldn’t like it. Don, you must consider them even if you are twenty three.” “Those aren’t any reasons at all, Sheila.” “Oh, well, now listen, Don. If we eloped, you’d be left out of the game, and father would think he had the upper hand and that you were a coward trying to run away. ’ “He couldn’t say that. Besides he’s going to put me off the team.” “Oh, yes, he could say that, and he would. I know him. He would blacken your name on the register, and lastly, he would annul the marriage.”

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12 THE ECHO that night on a homemade wooden cot, “we can live on rabbit meat for a day or two, then — oh, well, why try to cross a bridge be- fore you come to it.” The next day Bob was in bed with a fever. Many times he tried to get up, but his shoulder pained him, and he became dizzy. Once he reached the cupboard where he had a barrel of water and some salted rabbit meat put away. He brought a pail of water and a little rabbit meat to his bedside. His shoulder pained him, and it felt as if a fire were burning on it. He knew the fever was caused by this wound being infected. Bob knew that Dago could catch live rabbits and get plenty of water from brooks, so he did not worry about him. For two days Bob was delirious, and on the third day when he came to his senses, Dago was by his bedside. Bob tore a page from a book by his bedside and wrote: Dear Pat, I forgive you for what you have done to me and all you have said about me. I am very sick. Will you please come and bring a little food and medicine? If you are afraid to come, send someone. Please! Bob. He tied this note to Dago’s collar and told him to go find Pat. About three hours later Pat came tramp- ing into Bob’s cabin. “Huh! Now I guess I can marry Ellen Joel. I’ll tell her you fell for a California dame and married her for her money. You ain’t got no money, and if you did, you’d never be able to spend it. You’re dying. I caji see death in your face. I ain’t got no money either, but I can steal a little here and there; then I’ll marry Ellen. We have to be back by October. Well, you’ll never be there. You want food; here, take this boot; it‘s full of dirt from the back of ■my cabin.” As he said this, he threw the boot at Bob in bed. Pat left the cabin say- ing, “Good-by. I’m leaving for New York tonight.” Dago went to jump at Pat, but Pat kicked him, and Dago rolled back on the floor. Two days later Bob’s condition was very much improved, and he could walk about the cabin. He started to sweep up the dirt which had fallen out of Pat Moley s boot. “Look!” he cried, pointing at the dirt on the floor, and falling on his knees to examine it more closely, “It is, it’s — it is gold !” Dago, now able to walk for the first time since he was knicked by Pat, barked and understood Bob. Six days later Bob and Dago had dug all the gold from Pat Moley’s place and were on their way home. Rich — they knew they were richer than Pat Moley, and Bob knew Ellen Joel would soon be Mrs. Robert Mason. R. Stanley, ’34. A girl is like a pencil. You should have one of your own and not try to borrow the other fellow’s. SUMNER HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEARTS See all the sweethearts of Sumner High, As arm in arm they pass you by! First, comes Edith Killen, so shy. Leaning on the arm of that Mel Smith guy. Look who’s coming right along here — Marion and Pitts. Well, aren’t they dear? Well, Romance simply fills the air. Aren’t Bob and Grace the loving pair? Helen and Kenneth tag along. Singing together “Love’s old sweet song.” Bill Clooney and Dot Hobart pass us by. Why does Bill give that great, big sigh ? Now Junie comes with his girl, not bad. She’s Carol Coulter of Sumner a grad. Next, Rita and Mullin sidle by. They’re in love; you can tell by the look in each eye. Here is Lucas strolling along; With all those girls he can’t go wrong. Now comes Leslie and Louis Mehl. They’re in love. He thinks she’s swell. Eleanor Hall and Kempton, too. See him gaze into her eyes so blue. Who’s this girl with her beau coming over the hill? Well, I declare, it’s Peggy and Dr. Pill. (We mean Alfred, Peggy dear, fancy see- ing you two here.) And now we have two Freshmen names. Vivian Kemp and little James. We can’t spell your last name, Jimmie dear, But Vivian can, so don’t you fear. There are many more who are awfully cute; But we don’t want on our hands a libel suit. For we’re seeing each lass blush like a rose. We hope we’ve not hurt any one. Come on be a good sport! It’s all in fun! The Gossiper! Miss Megley: Define an adult. Taylor: An adult is a person who has stopped growing on either end and has started to grow in the middle. (Taken from a magazine) Miss Megley: “Chandler, give me a sen- tence using “satiate.” Tabe: “I took Marion Davison on a picnic, and I’ll satiate quite a lot.” Chase: “If a man smashed a clock, could he be accused of killing time?” Whitcomb : “Not if he could prove that the clock struck first.”