Morris High School - Yearbook (Bronx, NY)

Page 23 text:

Une Zliiahg, Zlinggg Hlnrning .Q-:Q ' 'E had been discussing the War in all the sharps g9's'2D1m , . Gallia? , and flats ever since, after supper, we had come i , f' out on the cool, salt breeze-swept veranda. Now the talk, by common consent, veered into normal ocean resort discussions on various congenial topics, fluke-fishing among the rest. CFluke, my uniniated 1 In friend, is a species of flounderg habitat, Atlantic Coast from Newfoundland to Cape Hatterasj. NIL Rigler, relating the story of an eighty-three pound catch made by three friends the previous morning, concluded by addressing Mr. Hall. f'Frank, Why don't you and Ross go out to beat that to-morrow morning? At this, I, Who had been trying to doze off for half an hour past, rubbed my eyes 'and sat up, all attention. Now, I am an ardent, if amateurish, disciple of Isaac Walton,-and this looked like business. lVIr. Hall glanced at Ross, Who agreed, rather half-heart- edly it seemed to me, but raised the mild objection that it would be difficult for the two of them to get the boat through the surf. This was my cue, my services were volunteered on the spot, and accepted. An appointment was made for five the next morning, and the subject dismisseed. Half-past nine found me abed with a formidable looking alarm clock set for 4:45 at my head, my bathing suit ready to slip on, and a pair of old trousers and a sweater handy, in case of fresh weather. Rather excited at the thought that on the morrow I was going to make my first catch of the season, I had some difficulty in falling asleep. Finally my cot turned into a tiny row-boat tossing to and fro on a vast expanse of angry waves, While I, leaning over the side, stretched a wonderfully elastic right arm down-down into the green billows, feeling about on the sandy bottom for fish. For days I groped about, but not one could I catch. After fruitless weeks had passed, I barely succeeded in touching one-it groaned heavily in a deep, rumbling voiceg another-this one snorted shrilly thrice, still another-and it shrieked aloud. The snorting and shrieking and groaning and moaning continued-continued for hours, until a loud, throbbing r-r-r-r-ing broke the spell. lVIy arm snapped back to its normal length, the boat became a bed once more, and I sat up, chilled and cold. But the wierd noises of the night before had had their foundation in fact, for blast after blast from fog-horns and sirens of every description, some far, some near, some high-pitched and shrill, some vibrant and deep, came to my ears from over the water. Proof positive that the morn was foggy. 19 as

Page 22 text:

Uhr GPIB Qillmfa Illnnt Ball Svtnrg AY, boys, l'm goin' to tell you of a game that once was played, O many years before the rules of playin' were My ever made, VVhen football players knew no touls, no fooling and all that, But man for man they played it out, they played ir tif-for-mr. Our star man was lhlclfarney, better man we never had, N He sure could handle two of yours, and 'notheix too, egad. ' And one and all the men were good except our . full-back Red, Q . He had the grit in 'im all right, but not much i of a head. . . ' 'Twas the last game of the series, and the greatest of them allg The score was tied, the fight was hard, we tus- sled for the ball, gg' VVhen Red, the full-back. in a play the ball out wildly tossed, O we were all against 'im for full twenty yards were lost. Our coach, all white with rage, rushed up to him and said, Get out, you darn old fool l and placed another in his stead. And now he's almost there-see! seel he's reached the place- Right near the goal lN'lcCarney fall, and couldn't rise no morel And still more suddenly than that, we saw our full-back Red, Unasked, rush in an' place himself in old lXlcCarney's stead. And then-then something happened, though not one of us knew how, l've wondered days and days and still l scarce know even now, For this same Redvhe gets the ball-is makin' for the goalg VVe watch, we all wait breathless, for there scarcely breathed a soul- And now he's almost there-see! he's reached the place- VVhen from all sides they jump on him-he falls upon his face. The rest, U well, that's nuthin', guess you know it, all of you- l ain't much of a teller, but's the best that l can do. VVell the game was won for us, but when we went to look at Red, lVitl1 the lwll in his l1and,a smile on his face, we found the tull-back- deadl AARON XVmNs'1'iz1N, '15, 18

Page 24 text:

ONE FISHY, FOGGY MORNING My inner man warmed by a cup of steaming coffee, I threw the sweater about me and proceeded to the rendezvous of the back porch. Here Hall and Ross had preceded me and were preparing the bait-about a hundred live killies in a pail of water. Hall went down to the boat-house, Ross and I following in a few moments with the tackle. By the time we reached the beach, Hall had the boat on the sand, and then ensued fifty yards of pushing, lifting and rolling-a matter not to be despised. Even since we had risen, the fog, instead of melting away with the dawning day, as we had fully expected, seemed to get thicker and thicker. From the spot on which we were standing, not a glimpse of the water would we get, though the pounding of the surf sounded distinctly in our ears. Then a lively little discussion took place. Should We go out, and risk being run down by some venturesome craft too far in-shore? Or should we turn back without making a try? Mr. Ross was for turning back at once, but Hall summed up as follows: We can go right out to the bell-buoy, where there's no danger of being run down, and then, fluke bite well on a morning like this. That settled it. Ross got into the boat and put the oars in the row-locks, while Hall and I, waiting until a wave larger than usual crashing down on the beach, pushed her out on the returning tide of seething water. We waded out to the thighs, then jumped on the stern and fell in. But out little fishing trip was almost nipped in the bud, for it transpired that Ross was not the man to get a light boat through a heavy surf. In spite of the impetus our pushing had given it, the boat's head began to turn, and we all should have had a pleasant ducking had not Hall literally snatched the oars out of the other's hands, using some strong language in the operation. He put her head to just in time to let us slip over, instead of through, a gigantic green roller which lapped our sides in passing as though loath to let us go unharmed. Hall continued at the oars, pulling directly for the buoy, half a mile out, which we heard tolling inter- mittently through the murky mist. We reached it without mishap and, throwing out a light anchor to prevent undue drifting, settled down to the business of the hour. Our lines were soon baited and thrown overboard, and the game was on. The tide was running strong, and in spite of the fact that we had our heaviest sinkers attached, they dragged away so quickly that very soon the point where the line entered the Water was lost to View in the mist which hung like a dark pall over the sea. Two-five-ten minutes passed. Hall had pulled up his line twice. The first time his bait had mysteriously disappeared, the 20