Lyman Hall High school - Singer Chronicle Yearbook (Wallingford, CT)

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THE CHRONICLE 15 MY ROOM Well, to begin with, my room is about twenty feet up in the air. (on the second story, of course), and is in the form of a rectangular solid eleven by fourteen by eight feet. It contains, among other things, two doors, two windows, and a closet. The hinges on the doors need a little oil; the windows could stand a washing; and the closet—well, I’m trying to convince my father that it needs a few more clothes in it. The floor is covered with light brown linoleum, much the worse for wear. A daintily-flowered pattern adorns the wallpaper, which I assure you, I had no part in choosing. This effeminate atmosphere is partly remedied, however, by large maps tacked on three of the walls, covering about three-fourths of their area. The maps are not put there to hide torn patches in the wall paper, either. Since I have a hobby of collecting maps, I tack some of my best specimens on the walls. On the walls are four of the National Geographic Society's maps of South America, Africa, Europe, and Central America; road maps of New York, New England, New Jersey, and Connecticut; a house number map of Manhattan and the Bronx; and my favorite, a U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey Chart of the Connecticut Coast from Guilford Harbor to East Haven River. The coastal chart is the kind used as an aid to navigation and gives the position of rocks, harbors, buoys, and lights, as well as depth soundings, channels, the character of the bottom, and other information vital to navigators. On the wall opposite the most frequently-used door glares a vivid sign, ready to smite the eye of everyone who enters the room—“PLEASE—FOB THE COM FORT OF OTHERS—DO NOT SMOKE”. I swiped this sign from the window of a Connecticut Company bus. To ease my conscience, I can truthfully say that the sign was about to fall off anyway; so always ready to make myself useful, I saved the company the trouble of picking it up. Also decorating the wall are several pictures of sailboats in action. (Yes, I’m a sailing fan.) Most of the pictures were clipped from Life and the Sunday Herald Tribune. In one corner of the room are an almost antique desk and a typewriter table with a typewriter on it. There occasionally, when nothing more interesting to do can be found, I buckle down to a little homework. On the desk stands an electric alarm clock, which I had spied, broken, in my father’s office. I brought it home, took it apart, and put it together again. To my great surprise, it worked! So ever since, I have been awakened at seven-fifteen by the noisy buzz of that darn clock. In the desk is a bottle of red ink, which I have not used for five years, although I have been “broke” for nearly that long. Near the table is a dusty book case with twenty or thirty books on it, the titles ranging from Mutiny on the Bounty to Neiv French Review Grammar. In another corner near the closet, is an overflowing wastebasket, which I ought to have emptied two weeks ago. Over there is an odd-looking piece of furniture, a combination table, bureau, and cabinet. On it is a portable phonograph and a pile of jazz recordings, the latest of which is Chick Webb's A-Tisket A-Tasket. In the third corner stand two tennis racquets and my trusty gun, a Daisy No. 195 Buzz Barton Special. While it’s been many a day since I last pulled the trigger, I can still remember the very first window I ever broke with it—and there’s a good reason why I can remember. On the other side of the room is a large, rather dilapidated bureau. On it are a hair brush, a couple of combs, a tie pin, and a wrinkled necktie. Over it

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11 THE CHRONICLE that lie must go home early. The store-keeper replied that he would put up some ginger-snaps for the missus. After taking considerable time wrapping the package, he gave it to Ichabod, who at that time bent down to tuck his trousers into his boots. The store-keeper winked at the others and pointed to Ichabod’s hat, already yellow and greasy with butter. The others catching the idea managed to have errands and business for him to do that kept him there several minutes longer. Finally when freed, his clothes were completely greasy, and as he was going out, the proprietor said, ‘Well, you can go now. We’ve had fun enough to pay for the butter you stole. You’ll be needing new clothes tomorrow. Good-night.’ “That was interesting said Jack. “I'rn glad you told it to me. I’ve often heard that it takes a real Vermonter to outwit a Vermonter, and your story surely proves it.’’ Shirley Jeffords, ’ tl (Author’s note: The legend used in this story is typical of a most any errnont town. It was adapted from American Myths and Legends by Charles S. kinner.) WINDY’S SHOOTING Have you ever met or heard about Windy? If you have ever been to Coles County, Nevada, you can't have missed him. Everybody from six to sixty knows Windy, mostly for his fantastic tales. I'd like to tell you one of his famous tales. It happened like this. One day Windy got a notion that he would like to shoot some w ild game. Now, when Windy gets a notion, no one can stop him from carrying it out. Windy got up bright and early, armed himself, and started out. He must have traveled for two hours before he reached his hunting grounds. And there, about four feet away, were deer tracks. “Well,” said Windy, “looks lak I got somepin’ here”. From this point on, he traveled slowly and cautiously. Then, all of a sudden, he saw a deer drinking water at a small stream! Let me tell you Windy was both thrilled and frightened at the sight. He had a hard time to keep himself from shouting. Anyhow, he got a good aim and shot. Let me say that Windy was so proud of the picture that he had it published in the paper. Ruth Shookie, ’39 WINTER’S LACE Have you ever watched while w inter rain And sleet knit lace on the window pane? The wild w inds roar, the trees bend low , The cold rain falls where last w as snow . But here on my window almost hid, The sleet knits lace as grandmother did. The patterns so dainty they seem to show There’s beauty even in storms, you know. Jean Pattee, ’39

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16 THE CHRONICLE hangs a mirror and last but by no means least is my bed, a plain, hard one, with a couple of broken springs. 11 sags a little in the middle and squeaks whenever I take a deep breath, but when I'm asleep I don’t notice it. I’ve stood it for about eight years now; so I guess a few more won’t make much difference. A-nony-inous, ’39 ()LI OR NEW? Outside it had been snowing steadily for two hours, and now the ground was white. It was the afternoon of the eighth day of January as Helen sat in the living room of her home in a small Massachusetts town. She was a senior in high school and was trying to do some homework, but she hadn't had any inspirations for an English theme; her mathematics examples refused to come out right; and everything she touched seemed to go wrong. Malt' unconsciously six opened her history book and began to read. The lesson was on the life in her great grandmother’s time. Helen closed the book. She didn’t like history, and anyway who cares about the life of our great grandmothers? Helen would much rather have some life of her own, in modern 1939 style. Unthinkingly, she murmured this fact aloud. Someone answered from behind her. “Humph! You've spent a whole hour there with your books, and you haven't done a single thing. When are you going to get down to work?” Startled, Helen turned and saw to her astonishment that the picture of her own great grandmother had come to life, and the little woman stood before her. The lady spoke again. “Don't you think you’d better get busy? It will be getting dark before very long, and you won’t have much light to study by.” “Hut I can turn on the lights like this, exclaimed Helen, still wondering at the appearance of this quaint person. She went to the switch and demonstrated. Grandmother, surprised and frightened, uttered an exclamation and then asked why Helen didn’t do something about the fire. Helen laughed, then explained as well as she could about electricity. Grandmother stayed and talked with Helen all the afternoon, interested in the many strange things around her She wondered at electricity, gas, automobiles, and countless little things that seemed necessities to Helen. Toward the end of the afternoon, Grandmother became very quiet. Helen noticed this and asked what tlx matter was. Grandmother thought for a minute, then said, ‘'ll seems to me. Helen, as though all this 1939 equipment has made you a bit lazy. Why, if you had been doing that homework in my day, you couldn’t have sal day-dreaming as I found you, because the light would really have gone. As it is, you have all the evening to do it in. where I would have had all the evening to do something else1. I think I prefer to go back to the picture on the wall to remember my own school days, rather than to day dream into the future as you seem to do when you should be doing homework.” Helen sal for quite a while, deep in thought. Would it really be better to live in those days as Grandmother had said? Helen remembered that it didn’t