Houlton High School - North Star Yearbook (Houlton, ME)

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The Planter By Merle Hawkes He reaps in joy, who sows in toil Throughout the fruitless years 3 A boundless wealth is his whose seed Is planted in his tears. A thousand banners mark the mound Where lies the earth's creation: A thousand tongues acclaim his hope, The building of a nation. Can this nation stand erect Without a granite pillar? Can we reach the coveted goal Without the muscled tiller? Then let us fight and live and learn, From na.ture's own rough hand, The lesson of good will and trust, In him whose life is land. To Write a Poem By Gerald Gardner When poets start to write a poem, They must have lots of time: They must think about their meter, Their story, and their rhyme. I haven't any meter, I haven't any rhymeg But there is one thing I've plenty of, And that one thing is time. It surely would be easy To write a poem for you, If I could tell a story Of something that was new. But since I can't think of a thing To write about for you, I'1l stop this poem now and hope That what I've done will do. l..-. i Policeman: Imagine a young boy like you, J. Boutilier, so drunk that you have to keep your arms around a telephone pole to keep yourself up. J. Boutllier: I'm not drunk. I was just seeing if I could get my arms around this telephone pole, because if I can I know that I'll be able to get them around Alice tonight. Autumn By Jack Carroll In time of years when summer wanes, And fallen leaves flood wooded lanes, When mellow moonlight casts its gleam 0'er golden field and wandering stream, Then let me roam through silent night, And watch the clouds in silvery flight. In time of year when summer Wanes, And kind earth yields her precious grains When through the Indian summer skies, The fleeing robin southward flies, Then let me roam through hill and dale, In search for Autumn's flaming grail. In time of year when summer wanes, And sky's clear blue the sunset stains, When drifting clouds of crimson hue Float listlessly in velvet blue, Then let me watch the sunset rays - Fade into evening's purple haze. In time of year when summer wanes, And southbound birds sing sweet refrains, When dying plants their pollen drop, From whence shall come October's crop, Then let me tread the fresh turned sod And silently commune with God. Reflections By Wlnnifred Sanderson I open the eastern window That faces toward the sung I hear the singing swallows And the brooks of morning run. The moon is shining brlghtlyg The sky is clear and blue. I hear the singing swallowsg They sing to me of you. Your eyes are like stars of morning, Your lips like a crimson flower! Good night! Good night! beloved, While I count the weary hours. Our English teacher's trying hard Of us, to poets make: Sorry to disillusion him, But I am just a take. -Margaret Smith

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- -.. Close of Day By Merle Hawkes The silent hush of that interval when night and day seem to intermingle in dusky greeting is pervading the atmosphere. A few eager frogs are croaking their joyous welcome of the lengthening shadows cast by the nearby foothills. The trees by the side of the dusty, travel-worn road stand like giant sentinels, guarding the unknown. The brook close by the road glides by with fre- quent sighs like a careworn traveler who, having gone far and seen many sights, is glad of the seclusion and rest of night. A peasant walks wearily up the road, glancing neither to right nor left as he nears the small village. A gleam of anticipation lights his eyes and gives a firmer swing to the tired arm holding the heavy tools, as a turn in the road brings into view a small white cottage with a single dim light gleam- ing in the window. He looks at the darkening hills and the lowering sky, and a feeling of supreme thankfulness makes his steps lighter. A feeling of accomplishment lightens the bur- den of the scythe and rake on his shoulder, for had he not cut many bushels of wheat today? The wind, rustling the leaves of the trees, seems to murmur its agreementg and the departing day leaves behind its benedic- tion of peace. The Sea By Lawrence Tilley The blue rolling swells of waves that loom high and foreboding in the foreground, and the silent, endless waters of the sea roll- ing away in the distant, hazy horizon, seem to vibrate with a sense of immense depth and mighty power. This whole world of water stops for no finite man or unending time, but rolls on in silent majesty. VA huge wave, rising up, pointing its white tip at the sky and then sinking swiftly back to the sur- face, emphasizes the irresistible strength of the sea. Each tiny ripple and white spray of foam, riding on these immense swells, re- flects the completeness and perfection of the ocean in its simplicity. The cloud-studded sky seems to hang low over the sea, and its gray billows float along with the waves and disappear with them behind the horizon. Beneath this seething and ever-moving water, all is calm, peaceful, and dark. Its quiet is never disturbed by the upper rest- lessness, and its gloom is never brightened by the noonday sun. All is dismal, but all is vast and infinite. Thrill of a Lifetime By Gerald Gardner As the sun slowly sank behind the dis- tant ridges and the shadows were growing long, a lone hunter paddled slowly over the red, glassy surface of a lake. He was very tired and a little disappointed from a long day's hunt, which had brought him no bigger game than a lone duck. As the hunter push- ed his light canoe around a marshy point, his heart jumped, for there, on the opposite side of the point, silhouetted against the evening sky, stood a huge bull moose. He was, indeed, a king among the mighty monarchs of the forests. Veteran though he was, the hun'ter's hands shook a little as he slowly raised his rifle to his shoulder. He easily picked up, on his sights, a vital spot- just behind the shoulder. As his finger eas- ed back on the trigger, he thought of the glory that would be his when he showed that mighty head to his friends. As the report of the rifle rang out across the lake, the huge bull sank slowly to his knees, and then fell on his side and lay still in the shallow water. The canoe shot madly ahead, and the hunter, all fatigue forgotten, paddled furi- ously around the point to where his prize lay dead. Sunset By Mary Terrio What could be more beautiful than the sunset? Its many beautiful rays of red and blue shine on the many lakes and trees and mountains. Just before darkness, we see it shining in all its splendor. Sometimes it seems almost as if the sky were on fire. The bright red, flame-like rays seem to pierce the earth. The, trees reach up to touch the rays, the bright green contrasting very beautifully with the gold and red. How fortunate we are to have such a. work of art in Nature!

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The Night Run of The Overland By Ruth Peabody It was snowing hard in Valley Junction, all the houses were in darkness except one. The Fox home was lighted, for Sylvia Fox was sitting up with her sick husband. Be- cause Ben, her husband, had been sick a long time, she was asking him to put away his foolish pride, and let her write her fath- er. She longed to tell him where they were -no matter if Ben had forbidden it. But Ben refused to let her write the letter. After a few moments of silence, the spell was broken by the distant scream of a locomotive, half-drowned in the howling wind. Sylvia glanced at the clock. There's the 'Overland', she murmured. She's three minutes late. The wind is dead against her and she must have a hard rail. They both listened with loyalty to the dull roar of the oncoming train. Instead of the usual thunderous burst as the train would sweep by, the earth trembled as the train came to a standstill. They gave each other a startled glance. Soon Sylvia sprang to the door in answer to a rap. My name is Howard, madam, said the conductor. We are in trouble. Our engineer had a stroke of apoplexy fifteen miles back and I want your husband to take this train. But he's too sick, sir, Sylvia exclaim- ed aghast. What's the trouble? called Fox sharp- ley, from his bed. The conductor repeated the storyg and the room was hushed. I'm too sick to do itg but she'll take the train, sir! exclaimed Fox eagerly. And she'll take it through safe, too. The conductor, staggered at this amaz- ing proposition, gasped, and stared at the young woman. I'll go, but someone must stay here with Ben , she said, in a low, resigned voice. As the conductor and Sylvia neared the cab, the conductor said, You're a brave lit- tle woman. Don't lose your nerve-but make time, Whatever you do. Every minute you make up is money in the company's pocket. Besides, we've got a big shot aboard. All you got to do is to get us in on time. The fireman, a young Irishman, stared at Sylvia as she entered the cab. Sylvia glanced at the guages, climbed upon the en- gineer's seat, and soon the Overland was on its way. Sylvia kept the throttle wide open and the reverse-lever to the last notch. The fireman danced attendance on the fire, watching his steam guage and water. Faster and faster they sped through the night. Time, time, time was all that counted with them! Through town after town they pass- ed, bringing Sylvla nearer her goal. In the rear car sat Mr. Staniford, the president, and Howard, who was holding his watch in his hand, hoping that no ill would befall his prodigy. At last, Howard told Staniford that it wasn't Fox that was hauling the train, it was his wife. What is Fox's first name? asked Staniford. I don't know, but he is tall and dark. He runs a small engine, and his wife rides with him: so she knows all the road. The president grasped Howard's hand and said huskily, Charlie, it's my own little baby girl! Howard knew then, as he had read of Staniford's daughter eloping with an en- gineer. She's a heroine and worthy of her father's admiration! Howard said enthus- iastically. The operator at Valley Junction had flashed the news along the wire. Sylvia brought the Overland into the depot in Stockton twenty seconds ahead of time. A curious and enthusiastic throng of lay-over passengers and railroad men pressed around the engine. When Sylvia appeared in the gangway, her hair glistening with melted snow and her pale face streaked with soot, the crowd burst into yells of applause. For a moment she reeled, and then she saw her father pushing unceremoniously through the throng. President Staniford clasped his daughter in his arms, and Sylvia's over- strained nerves gave way under the double excitement. She sobbed, Oh, papa, call me your little red-head again!