Holbrook High School - Echo Yearbook (Holbrook, MA)

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THE ECHO 9 THE UNEXPECTED SURPRISE Mr. and Mrs. Cole agreed that it had been a mighty interesting trip. The month had gone by so quickly that they were both sur- prised and a little sad to realize that this Saturday and Sunday in New Mexico would be their last stop in a new place. On Mon- day they would be turning the car east again. In two weeks they’d seen country where the earth was red and there were no trees. They’d watched the rocks turn purple and red when the sun dropped. They’d seen cactus, pepper trees, skies saturated in blue, stars closer, more thickly clustered than stars ever seemed at home. And they’d seen Indians, not only Indians in hand-me-down, but Indians in velveteen blouses of flaming green and orange, In- dians dancing to wheedle the gods of the harvest. The velveteen blouses were ma- chine-stitched. The dancers wore muslin shorts to shield their copper-colored naked- ness from the tourist eye. The cowboys with their ten-gallon hats and high-heeled boots were the riding masters of a ranch. But Mr. and Mrs. Cole had thought of noth- ing like that. The West to them was exotic, unexpected, richly colored. Their hotel was one of the best they’d stayed in for all its being so far off the beaten track. It was built of adobe, a one- story building sprawling over half an acre, with bathrooms of tawny-colored tile for every bedroom, a swimming pool in tur- quoise color and filled with gently warm waters, and the waiters wearing blouses and silver-colored moccasins. “This is certainly an unusual place. Isn’t it, Mildred?” asked Mr. Cole. “It surely is,” said Mrs. Cole. “We must seyd some postal cards to the folks.” The clerk behind the desk was a nice- looking young fellow. Mrs. Cole took to him right away. She told him all about their trip, how much they’d enjoyed seeing this desert country. “I like it, too,” he said. “I was out here for my health. That’s all right now, but I’ve stayed on.” He didn’t tell her that he’d stayed on longer than he’d wanted to — -stayed on when his longing to get home to Mary Elizabeth was so strong that he couldn’t sleep for thinking of her. He’d be here alone forever, he imagined. He’d never been deprived of the hope he was still clinging to unless some financial miracle came along. Twenty a week wouldn’t take care of Mary Elizabeth. He couldn’t save enough out of twenty a week to bring her here to him or to take him home to her. Perhaps — the Coles really seemed to like the desert. “I did some pictures of this part of the country,” he said. “Maybe you’d like to see them.” “Photographs?” asked Mrs. Cole. “No, paintings. I have them back here in the office.” “Well, say — so you’re a painter. It must be interesting,” said Mrs. Cole. They looked at his canvases: Camelback at Dawn, Red Desert, Grand Mountain, and Sunset. “My, you certainly have got it all down,” said Mrs. Cole. “They’re oil paintings, eh?” Mr. Cole said. “Genuine oil?” “Oh, yes.” “Do you have anything to go by, or do you just — I mean, it’s like free-hand drawing ? ” “Yes. They’re not copied from anything. I look at a place and remember and then paint from memory.” “Are they for sale?” Were they; for sale! Indeed they were. If someone would buy one! If these good- hearted, dull people would just buy one, he’d take new heart. He’d have a part of Mary Elizabeth’s face and, more important, Mary Elizabeth’s fare and, more important, he’d have hope. “Yes,” he said. They came back to Red Desert. “How much are you asking for this one?” “A hundred dollars for that particular one,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “My, they bring big prices. Don’t they? Well, thank you for showing them to us. It’s fine work.” They went away. He didn’t surrender to hopelessness right away. Maybe the pic- ture would grow on them. Maybe tomor- row or Monday before they left. They had a big car. They had the hotel’s most ex- pensive suite. He wouldn’t give up yet. But by Sunday night, even though Mrs. Cole had asked him to let her see Red Desert again, that small timely hope of his had grown weak and limp. They liked the pictures, really liked them, but they were the sort of people who spend money on cars, radios, and bathrooms, not paintings. He’d been a fool, but this love does make a young man foolish, and he was deeply in love with Mary Elizabeth. He wrote to her that night. It was only fair. Maybe he needn’t send it, but he’d have it ready. Perhaps just because he’d written it some unexpected god of good- luck would work the miracle which would make it unnecessary to send it. “My darling: I’m writing this to break our engagement. It’s the best way. I’d hoped that I might get somewhere with the painting, but I’ve shown the canvasses I’ve done to a hundred tourists, rich ones, too, without a sign of a sale. I’ve had to face the fact that twenty a week is all I’m likely to earn for years. I’ve fought off facing it because I love you so; I’m so lonely for you. But it’s no good. “No one could love you more than I, but someone else will come along who can take care of you, give you the kind of comfort- able, happy life you should have, because you’re so sweet. After you get this letter, don’t write me and tell me you’ll wait. It’s no use, sweetheart. There were a couple of people here who liked one of the pictures. I

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8 THE ECHO DEDICATED TO THE SENIORS Seniors, forty-eight in number, the Echo staff feels proud to dedicate this June issue to you. This issue, in our estimation, is worthwhile, and we feel that dedicating it to you will only add to its value. For four years you have worked and played whole- heartedly and sincerely, and now you are leaving dear old Sumner. You are about to start on various pathways of life, but al- ways in the background there will be a little corner reserved for your friendship and associations in Sumner. Hence it is with great pleasure that the Echo wishes you happiness in your future life and sends you forth with the best of wishes for all kinds of success. MOTHER S MINCE PIES “Willy,” ordered Mr. Brown sternly, “let that pie alone.” Mrs. Brown put in meekly, “Now, Paw, you know he’s so fond of mince pie, and since it is Thanksgiving Day, you ought — .” Mr. Brown, subsiding, but sending a meaning glance in Willy’s direction, “All right, Maw, but if he dares to take another — why, heaven protect us, the boy’s already eaten four pieces! It will be we that’ll be sending for the doctor in the middle of the night. You know that. Willy during this tiff between his rather elderly father and mother had chosen the largest piece of pie and started in on it with a gusto unimpaired by the before men- tioned four pieces of pie and a huge turkey dinner. One thing that might be said for the Brown family was that at least they ate well. But that night Willy fought his battle alone and not aided by any medical assist- ance as his father had direly predicted. Time turned its pages swiftly backward until he, Willy, emerged as a knight clad in a shining suit of armour. A diamond and ruby studded crown flashed on his manly brow, shedding an eerie light upon his pale face — a face with the lips com- pressed in a straight line, with the eyes icy and determined, and with the nostrils pinched in cold passion. For he, little Willy, having become King James in the twinkling of an eye and in the eating of five pieces of pie, was defending himself without the help of a single cowardly henchman or vassal from the storm of spears, stones, and war hatchets hurled at him by the redoubtable Scotch warriors. The air was continually rent by the heart- breaking groans of the dying or wounded men about him and by the war cries of the struggling, straining combatants. The battle wore on. King James, nee Willy, the glowing hero of the day, kept back the rushing hordes at the point of a tiny pistol loaded with Fourth of July caps. Just as the blood red sun was slowly sink- ing behind the snow-capped, purple tinged mountains, King James suddenly discovered an iron staircase behind him which seemed to have appeared out of the empty air. His wounds pained him; one particularly bad was a long deep gash on his forehead which was beginning to make his temple throb and ache. The mob closed in on him for a final attack, for they knew that he alone could not hold out against them much longer. Realizing this, King James with a cruel, sneering glance of hatred at his former subjects leaped up the beautifully wrought stairway which, after his brief ascent with the yelling Scotch at his heels, he found led surprisingly enough to the attic of his own home. All the ancient bat- tered furniture that had been discarded by the royal family of the Browns had been put there. The king reached the last step but despaired of further safety, for now he was completely trapped. Instantly a simple plan came to his mind — he would throw this furniture down on their heads! Crash! There went the old sewing ma- chine that he used to play with such a long, long time ago when he was just a tiny little boy. Groans and a deep roar of anger proved to him that his aim had been true. With glee he hurriedly seized the reed rock- ing chair that his granny used to occupy and knit stocking for him in. Without waiting to see the effect of his work, he grabbed and threw a baby’s bassinet, a tip- top table, and an ancient mattress in quick succession down the stairway. The few warriors left below now, recognizing their hopelessness against such a demon, sent up a wail of surrender to their dauntless king as he sent a once-treasured tricycle whang- ing down upon them. Falling weakly on their knees, having cast away their swords and pikes as far as they possibly could, they entreated their beloved ruler to have pity on them, for they had been led astray by —continued on page 22

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10 THE ECHO decided if they bought one, I could ask you to keep on waiting, but they didn ' t. Nobody does. Nobody will. So I’m saying goodbye to you, my dearest. Goodbye for good.” He had the letter sealed and ready on the desk when the Coles checked out in the morning. There was still a chance. Just before they left, Mr. Cole might turn back. “Well, goodbye,” Mr. Cole said. “Good luck with your painting.” “Thank you,” he said, keeping his voice carefully free from the dull despair which he felt. “I wonder if you’d be good enough to drop this letter in a mail box at Santa Jf e? Air mail is quicker from there.” “Certainly. Glad to,” said Mr. Cole. It wasn’t till they were at home in Bathe, a week later, that Mrs. Cole came upon the letter in Mr. Cole’s pocket. “Oh! John,” she said, “you forgot to mail that nice young fellow’s letter, and he wanted it to go so quickly.” “Gosh,” said Mr. Cole. “Isn’t that like me ? What’ll I do ? Maybe he wouldn’t want it mailed now. I’ll tell you, supposing I was to send it back, and what do you say I get him to ship along that picture, the Red Desert one? That would kind of make it up to him, and anyway I like that thing. It would be a kind of nice souvenir of our trip.” MOUNTAIN BABY’S SONG Hark! f rom afar comes the sound of sweet bells Which echoes through mountains and dells. It ' s the signal of sheep coming home. Look! They move like the white ocean foam. The white of their furs as small clouds The side of mountain enshrouds. Hark! The soft bleat of the ewes you can hear As the quick-moving keen mountaineer Tries to keep them from going astray. Look! Baby dear, from the group one’s away. The shepherd can’t see the wee lamb, For he’s hid ’hind a fleecy white ram. Hark! In a distance a horn has been blown. The watcher is making it known That one has escaped from the drove. Look! The lamb will never more rove. You may sleep on my breast, baby dear, Till your Daddy will come to us here. L. Soderblom, ’34. Bob Colburn: You look sweet enough to eat. Gerry: I do eat. Where shall we go? GOD’S GIFT OF MOTHER God ga e us the flowers and trees. God sent us the gay birds and bees. He gave us life and hope and love And sent the grand free skies above. He sent music and beauty rare. He gave us the power to care And glorious nature so free And even the wonderful sea. For God’s gifts are very dear And come with a smile and a tear, And they like cheery raindrops fall. First comes the rarest gift of all — The jewel of gifts, Mother. She’s more wonderful and sweeter Than all the gay birds and bees, Nobler than the flowers and trees. Mother has that beauty so rare. Mother has the power to care. And in my mother’s eyes you can see Why she is all my world to me. Edith M. Flanagan. I often wonder where the clouds go, The clouds that go drifting by Like little wooly snow-white lambs, Pushing across the sky. They heap like beautiful snow drifts And dazzle in the sun, Their glamour is never fading, Their work is never done. The pale blue of their background, Their valleys and their hills, Their softness and their whiteness, They’re one of nature’s thrills. M. Davison, ’34. I’ve read the books of Shakespeare In verse, in rhyme, in prose. I’ve also read some fairytales. They’re silly, I suppose. But if someone should request of me Of these two to take my pick, I think I’d take the fairytales, ’Cause Shakespeare makes me sick! How anyone like him Could ever climb to such great fame Is a problem, the solution of which I find I cannot name. So let us stick to fairytales — The kind we love to read, And all fall back on Shakespeare In our direst time for need. Anna Benvie. Mrs. Mullin: Did you give the penny to the monkey? G. Mullin: Yes, Mother. Mrs. Mullin: What did the monkey do with it? G. Mullin: He gave it to his father who played the organ.