Oakfield Alabama High School - Oracle Yearbook (Oakfield, NY)

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LITERATURE Sitting Around On Sunday Most depressing, is it not? Also terribly boring, This sitting in perfect idleness When it's Sunday afternoon. The sky is overcast with clouds The gloom inva-des Not only my humble domicile, But my mind as well. I hate a Sunday Afternoon. Buddy Traver, English I Beyond That Curtain Beyond, that curtain of black, are the many wonders of life, The The The good and the bad, the work and strife birds and the bees are all near me streams, the ocean, the sea- But, alas, that curtain of black From me, all the real treasure of life, holds back. Betty Jordan, English II l..., Bridges We all are building bridges, Across the great divide, They reach from earth to heaven, When in dreamland, we abide. At times our bridges topple, They seem to rock and sway, A storm or a tempest, Would sweep our bridge away. Our summer turns to autumn, Our teardrops fall like rain, By friends, we seem forsaken, Our bridge is cleft in twain. Pick up your bolts and rivets, Just build the span anew, Then friends, and love and laughter, Will cross your bridge with you. Phyllis Wilder, JI English IV

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LITERATURE On Returning A Borrowed Book T sure was nice of Joe to lend us that new book of his. Just got it too, and he hasn't read it. Told us he wouldn't have time to look inside the covers for at least a week and somebody might as well be using it. We pro- tested, but not too strongly because we've always wanted to read, that book. Besides, it will only take a day or so to read it, and, we can easily find time. The week passes rapidly without leaving a single minute to read. To- morrow night we'll finish that book and get it back to Joe. One day over a Week won't matter. But something comes up unexpectedly and tomorrow night has no leisure time. The one week merges into two weeks. Somehow the book slips our mem- ory and is completely forgotten. While cleaning, the maid tucks the book into a far corner of the book shelves. Several times during the third week we make solemn promises to ourselves to read the book and. return it. But somehow these promises fade into oblivion. Three weeks change into four, four into five, five into sixg six into seveng seven into two monthsg two into fourg and four into six. Then one day, while looking for a volume of Browning's poetry, we come across a bright-jacketed book that seems strangely out of place among our books. The title seems familiar but we just can't place it. Suddenly we remember, why it's the book we borrowed from Joe last summer. Somehow the desire to read the book has disappeared. Of course, we must return the book, but how? One cannot say, Here is your book I borrowed six months ago. I've been to busy to read it. The lender would probably retort, I was just about to send a bill to you for 'this book. Now, I'll just charge you library dues. Let me see, three cents a day for 180 days. That will be 37.20. Will you please pay as soon as possible? I should like to buy more books and start a lending library. We would not blame him either. Perhaps he has forgotten about the book. He's been out West for three months on an engineering job, and it may have slipped his mind. Here's somebody at the door. Why, it's Joe and his wife. Put that book back on the shelf. It may cause trouble if left in plain sight. What's that! Joe just mentioned the name of that book. An engineer with whom he worked recommended it. Good night! We're sunk. He's asking if we happen to have a copy of it. Well, here goes. Yes, we have a copy. He wants to borrow it. Doesn't he realize it's his own book? He's looking at it, but he doesn't suspect anything. Of course, you can borrow it, Joe. We're always ready to lend, a book to a friend. Well, there it goeis. I suppose we won't see it for six months. Joe is so careless about borrowing books. Never does return them for five or six months. However, no amount of mental pain will cure us of our habit of careless borrowing. Marie Olmsted, English III. 26

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LITERATURE A Poem I'm supposed to write a poem, And, of course it ought to rhyme, But I just sit here thinking, Mother says I'm killing timeg But perhaps if she were to write it She, too, might change her mind. When I want to write a poem Somehow my brain won't work, But I know that I shall have to try And it will do no good to shirk. It isn't very long you see, But I can't help the size, I've tried so hard, and have done my best So please don't criticize? Betty Greene, English I iQ-- A Sophomore's Perplexity I woke up this morning at break of dawn, To fume at the neighbor for mowing his lawn, Doesn't this seem to be always the way? The lawn must be mowed on Saturday. I pull down the shade and plunge back in bed Punch up the pillow and bury my head, Do what I will it just doesn't matter, I can't get away from that lawn mower chatter. If the lawn could be moved between eleven and noon, I would,n't be wakened from sleep quite so soon, Now, you see a Sophomore's life isn't honey and, pie, The Oracle Staff is waiting for this, so Goodbye. Dorothy Mullaney, English II l... The Musicians In this great orchestra which is life, To each of us is given a page of notes to play. Low notes-notes of sadness, lingering and unsweetg High notes-those of pleasure, gay and light. We musicians, uncontent as we are, ' To follow as the Master would lead- Insist on playing those notes of pleasure, only to find, The sweet music of our great orchestra soon discorded by our mistake Were each of us poor musicians able, To carry our part in harmony and time . This worl-d would ever be free from wrong! Celia Nagel, English IV 23