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

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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!

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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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-A -Typical . Harvard-Yale Football Game By James Donovan One of the best football games I have ever seen was the Harvard-Yale game this year. Saturday morning, November 20, found a light fall of snow around Boston, which made the field in the Stadium soggy. At one o'clock, my brother and I left for the Harvard Stadium, where we arrived early, the large gates of the stadium still being flooded with incoming spectators. The game started shortly after we ar- rived, with both teams set on winning. Har- drives deep into vard opened up with Yale's territoryg but because of the efficient punting of Colwell, Yale's fullback, Yale was kept out of danger. Midway through the second period, Foley, Harvard's half- back, faded back and passed to Daughters, who caught the ball on the seven-yard line and scored from there. Harvard's try for the extra point was blocked. This ended the scoring of the first half. I wandered around during the half and had hardly returned when Yale started on a sixty-seven yard scoring drive, Clint Frank was on the scoring end of this drive, carry- ing the ball over from the two-yard line. Yale's try for the extra point was blocked. The score was 6-6. Harvard's other score came on a long drive, early in the fourth quarter. Struck, MacDonald, and Foley ripped off long gainsg but it was Foley who scored. He scored from the ten-yard line on an end run. Bos- ton converted, making the score 13-6. Toward the closing minutes, Yale open- ed up its passing attack with Captain Frank passing. Harvard was not to be cheated of its victory and knocked down all Yale pass- es. The game ended with Yale on the short end of a 13-6 score. The Harvard players who were out- standing were Struck and Foley in the backfield, while the whole line did a re- markable job at stopping Frank and the other Yale backs. Clint Frank, Yale's great captain, was outstanding on defense, stopping Harvard's running attack time and time again. All through the game, he demonstrated his sportsmanship as well as his athletic pow- ers. Even in losing, he proved himself worthy of the title of All American . Physical vs. Mental Qualities By Donald Macllroy ' There are two distinct types of laziness. These two types are physical laziness and mental laziness. Physical laziness is the most easily observed, while mental laziness is discernible only by those who seek to ob- serve it. The unbalanced person has a larger proportion of one of these than of another. A certain high school boy may play an out- standing game of football, yet fail to com- plete the greater part of his English, French, or science assignments. The boy who sits across the aisle may never exer- cise his body, yet be the valedictorian of his class. The first young man can be compared with a machine. His spectacular actions on the gridiron are merely plays which have been inserted into his mind by the coach. He, as a member of the team, is just an- other cog in a great physical mechanicism, controlled by plays which the players have memorized. His classmate, who never indulges in anything the least bit strenuous bodily, has an active mind and uses it to great advant- age. He gives all subjects a complete an- alysis and acts accordingly. He is often so studious that his intellectual ability greatly offsets his physical actions. In short, he's odd. The balanced person takes an interest in a variety of physical and mental activi- ties. He keeps regular hours and takes the proper amount of exercise and rest daily. He grasps all opportunities that will ad- vance his knowledge, when others would al- low these chances to pass by. - CLOUDS One very warm afternoon last summer at Old Orchard Beach, I sat idly on the soft sand and watched the clouds floating by on the beautiful azure sky. The larger ones seemed to go lazily across the sky like big white dogs that had been lying in the hot summer sun. The small ones played, jump- ed, and danced around the celestial heavens like little children who had just come out for their afternoon play. All of them Were so white that they looked like newly-shaken balls of angora disappearing over the wavy horizon.-Jeanette Small.