Needham High School - Advocate Yearbook (Needham, MA)

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IMI THE ADVOCATE in the leaping hre, L'I'll do it because my hero has died, but he is my only hero who has ever lived. fl: Pk :lf Years later a wandering man found a marker with the immortal Varney's name written upon it. With the help of friends he dug far into the earth, but all they found was a hardened carnation, its white petals gray with the work of the ages. TO BE READ WHEN YOU ARE STUCK IN THE SNOW Richard Warren, '33 Donft start swearing, pal, or you will never get out. I know the road is slippery, your tires are smooth, your gas is low, you haven't any chains, and you want to go places in a hurry. I've been in your shoes many times and I didn't have time to wait for the snow to melt around the car. It is a very delicate and complicated system, this getting out of drifts or what have youg but if you follow directions carefully you may get out. Usually when you start driving in a snow- storm, you donit think of bringing along a shovel in case you do get stuck. But if, by chance, Providence hath lain a shovel in the rear of the family car, you are in luck. All you have to do is shovel the drift away, and then try to keep from sliding into another. You are fortunate if you happen to be stuck on a hill. If your car is fairly light, like my Chevvy, it won't be so hard. Try putting the car into first or reverse and see where you get-probably farther into the drift. Then try pushing, downhill of course. If this doesnat work, leave the engine run- ning, put it into reverse and push, but make sure you leave the door open so that, when it does start going out of the drift, you can hop in and guide the car to the bottom of the hill. Then begin your ascent anew. You'll probably get stuck again, but keep trying until you succeed. You couldn't think of turning around and taking another road. If you are stuck on the level without a shovel, you are in for a tough time. Ask the man who knows. You may be able to push it if you are big enough, or think you are. You may be able to kick the drift away with feet and arms used windmill fashion. But I think it would be best for you to sit inside, cool your heels, and wait until somebody with chains comes along and pushes you out. This last method may make you think you are a parasite on society, but not at all, most people like to help fellow men in distress. I consider it the best way, too. It saves you a strained back the next morning. fHave I ever had those?I It saves gas and tires, which is much more appealing to the pater when you arrive at the old homestead. fDon,t I know itll I So, if you are behind on sleep, sleep while waiting for a kind fellow adventurer of the broad highway-but you're probably on a byway. Look at the scenery, glance over your road map, do anything you like, and see if I care. Good luck, pall MBUDDYH Anna Curtin, 733 Like a ray of brightest sunshine His cheery smile flashed, Bringing gladness to the hearts Of those he passed. His eyes were ever twinkling With the fun he loved so well, And his voice was full of laughter As it gaily rose and fell. A kindly spirit of helpfulness, A willingness to do- These made me love and honor him His whole life through. And when at last I have fulfilled The final act of Fate, I know that NBuddy will be there, At Heaven,s golden gate.

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THE ADVOCATE f13l LOST MANUSCRIPT Elinor Bowker, '35 The well-known novelist, Varney, climbed the long Hight of stairs to his attic room with a broad smile on his red face. The froth of an early mug of beer hung on his drooping mustache. He pounded himself briskly on the chest when he thought of his fifteenth novel lying completed on his desk. Best ever, he muttered, alluding to his novel. c'Couldn't be a better hero in a book than Dickey, sheik though he is. Ladies like him pretty wellf, Varney climbed on, chuckling as he went. He sprang heavily up the stairs to his door, and, pushing the sacred portal open, he peeped inside. He liked to see his beloved manuscript lying neatly on the desk lid. Suddenly Varney leaped into his room with an angry shout, for there-there were the pages of his precious manuscript scat- tered over the desk and fioor. Crimly Varney picked up the papers and arranged them. At a slight sneeze behind him Varney wheeled about, astonished. There on the old couch, barely discernible in the gray light of the dying day, Varney saw-Dickey, the sheik. HK - k - k - ker -- choo li' sneezed Dickey. MClimbed out of the old book. Whoever heard of a hero with a cold? Oh-h-bl My head aches, by nose tickles, my throat's sore, and my eyes water. I'm burning all over but my feet are cold. Bring me another blanket quicklv Wildly Varney obeyed and he brought other things toofa hot water bag, broth, pil- lows, and medicine. He replaced the silk handkerchief with two substantial cotton squares, and he removed from Dickey's but- tonhole the ever-fresh Carnation, which seemed to make Dickey sneeze the more. All night through Varney sat by the couch and soothed the miserable man. Between his fitful dozings Dickey upbraided himself for having such an unromantic sickness as a cold. He coughed, sneezed, sniffied, and groaned, but disturbed not Varney, who was as patient with Dickey as a mother with an erring child. After a long noisy sleep, at dawn Dickey woke and hailed Varney with a weak smile on his pale face. 'Think I'll get well?,' Dickey inquired with such hope in his high-pitched voice that Varney took the child of his brain to his heart. 4'Surc, you will get well. We'll carry you through it, he replied in his gruff voice. He went to the other side of the room to hide his face for he knew that Dickey had pneu- monia. Varney lifted l1is head and prayed to Cod that he would get well. For a week Varney slaved for Dickey, who only grew paler and thinner every hour. Sometimes he was delirious, and he always raved of the same thingfthe absurdity of a magnificent hero having a common yet ter- rible cold like this. One foggy morning Varney sat beside Dickey and watched his only child die. Dickey clung to his hand to the end and tried to tell himself that he was not dying, that a hero could not die, that a hero lives forever. Varney watched him with tear-filled eyes, and when Dickey's eyes had closed, and the carnation had wilted, 'Varney slumped in his chair and went to sleep with tears trickling down his nose. At midnight Varney gathered the crumpled form of Dickey up in his arms and carried him far out into the country. There, beside an apple tree, he buried him and erected this marker over the grave. Here Lies Dickey Hero of My Fifteenth Novel Varney Varney went home and burned his novel. He said as he watched the leaves curl up

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THE ADVOCATE E151 BULL MARTIN Ralph Adams, '33 The Bull comes strutting down the aisle, The crowd now stands to boo at him, Upon his face a sneering smile As if to say heis sure to win. He bows and climbs up on the mat, The bell soon rings and they begin. He crouches and prepares to dive- Two-forty pounds of seething beef- Then when he springs and forward flies, God help the man that's underneath. A NEWSPAPER Gardner Fay, ,33 Sheet after sheet A jumble of black and white: But on closer view, What comedies, thrills, and tragedies May lie beneath its folds. Headlines flashing, Breaking the lines of monotonous printg Pictures sprinkled carelessly Over its speckled face, lt tells the secrets of all the world. THE CUP IN THE BIG GLASS CASE Edmund Hanson, '33 It was house-warming night at the new Attica High School. Everywhere throughout the building a buzz of excitement prevailed. Harassed taxpayers critically examined the cause for their boosted tax rates. Building committeemen strutted about, looking for people to ask them questions and tell them how well they had done their task. Efferves- cent mothers ohid at every new-fangled doo- dad called to their attention by self-conscious students appointed to do so. All the grown- ups kept reminding each other and their off- spring that, '6We never had such opportuni- ties when we were children. The young people today donst realize how lucky they are, while the lucky young generation won- dered if their parents had ever been subjected to an English teacher like Miss Soandso or a math instructor like Mr. Whosis. Everyone had an education complex that evening and the trophy room just off the main hall, near the front entrance, was almost deserted. ln spite of its fresh newness it was a room of memories to any former member of the school. Pictures of long ago teams adorned the creamy walls. Fragments of shattered goal posts rested on tables. Tattered numbered jersies of plunging full- backs, worn track shoes of long since stiff- kneed sprinters, and faded caps and battered gloves of slugging outiielders graced the wall cases. ln the center of the room stood a large glass case containing a single, huge silver cup. Before this case stood the only occupant of the room, a middle aged man of medium height and stocky build. His bearing seemed to mark him as a former athlete, although he was beginning to show signs of many hours of office work. He was a typical moderately successful small-town business man, who might have had a son in college or a daughter showing her mother the home economics department at that very moment. He seemed lost in thought, gazing at the newly-polished cup. It seemed to be the most highly prized trophy in the room. It bore the inscription:- GREEN VALLEY BASKETBALL LEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP CUP Awarded to ATTICA HIGH SCHOOL 1910 Presented by JOHN A. FROTHINGHAM Another man entered the room. He was about the same age, but tall and heavily