Pennell Institute - Whirlpool Yearbook (Gray, ME)

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THE “KAYAKING” Kayak—an Eskimo canoe ; usually of seal- skins and completely decked, the covering heing laced about the paddler. I shall never forgive Mr. Webster for that definition. But, then again, maybe he never tried to paddle one of those banana- shaped eggshells he refers to when he talks of kayaks. I accomplished the task. (period) It took me two weeks, several duckings, and a little million blisters. Oh, it's not that I hold anything against kayaks. In fact, Oswald (that's the kayak’s name), was a very pretty, well behaved kayak, if he happened to take a liking to you. Oswald and I got along fine the first day or two. The two of us would glide over the water, Oswald's beautiful baby blue skin shining, and his maple stained paddles slip- ping in and out of the water while I received a beautiful sun tan. But the third day. Oswald was cross. He didn't feel like riding so — Oswald capsized and I found myself looking at the lake bottom instead of the sky. Oswald went drifting along and lodged him- self on a rock, just out of spite. while I swam for shore. The fourth day. I decided not to go out as it was raining “cats and dogs. The fifth day, I went kayaking again, this time going way across the lake and back with no accidents. But oh! When once more on dry land — I have never before seen such beautiful blis- ters as I had on my hands. Well, I finally learned how to handle a kavak but it took a lot of courage. Sneaking of courage — the most courageous thing Oswald and I did this summer was to go over in front of the boys' camp and throw the paddles away. We had three counselors all about nineteen years of age help us home. Oswald enjoyed that so much! BARBARA NICHOLS. LET'S FACE IT In a college in the midwestern section of our country not long ago, as two American Fourteen DO O M == boys were walking across the campus, they met a Chinese boy, who was their classmate. Stopping him, one of the boys asked the Chinese student a guestion which had been puzzling him for some time. “Is it true that people in China eat birds’ nests?” The Chinese boy smiled and went on to explain how many things tend to make misunder- standings among countries and races. He concluded by saying, “My parents would be surprised if I were to write and tell them that Americans eat ‘hot dogs.” It is the little things such as this that have caused a great many of the problems of race prejudice. Economic differences also have a great deal to do with prejudices. Before the Civil War, in the South, about thirty per cent of the population had imported slaves work- ing for them. That was all right for the people who had plenty of money : but for the other seventy per cent, it didn’t work out quite so well: for the negroes were employed in the places where the whites might have worked, Hence, part of the prejudice against negroes. In many orders and clubs in this country negroes and Jews are not allowed: and yet we call this a free country in which everyone has a chance for advancement. Ts this what we mean when we say, “One nation, indi- visible, with liberty and justice. for all?” What do those words mean to us? Until everyone of us comes to realize that God created everyone equal. and acts accord- ingly, the problems of peace, and freedom, and justice will never be completely and sat- isfactorily solved. ERMINIE CRANDALL. “A HERO” Bright lights flashed in front of me. Men. excited and tense, hurried back and forth, shouting to be heard above the wind and rain. Regardless of the storm, the shouting, the mutterings and growling of a large crowd of people, it seemed deathly quiet all of a sud- den. Every eye was glued to the top of the MI LLL чт iue a

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Suddenly something huge and dark loomed up through the dimness. Dave and Arnold rose to their feet. The horses seemed to realize that they had done their part so they stopped. Through the falling snow showed the famaliar shape of a house. Both boys lei out a cheer as they recognized the farm of their friend, Mr. Andrews. They leaped off the sled when Mrs. Andrews opened the door. “Hello. Who is it?” she called out. Dave and Arnold ran up to the door and grected her. Mrs. Andrews told them to stable their horses and then come into the house and have some hot chocolate. After their chores were done they returned to the house to tell the Andrews their story. Mrs. Andrews smiled as she listened. “You know, boys.” she said, “those two horses were raised on this farm. No matter where they are, they always head back here.” The next morning the snow had stopped so the boys again started out on their way: this time more sure of reaching their desti- nation. FAE WILSON. NATURE'S ARTIST Jack Frost, dressed in his red hat, green Jacket, yellow pants, and long brown shoes with turned up toes is busy at work again. Gayly racing over hills and valleys, with his brush and pallet, he brings a new dress for every tree. He works swiftly and silently. from the highest to the lowest branch, big trees and small. A dab of red. a touch of yellow, a splash of orange; and a wonderful transformation takes place. Working while everyone else is asleep, he throws a blanket of milky-white frost over the fields, and paints frost pictures on your windows, beautiful designs no one could copy. No artist’s work can compare with this magic spell he paints over the country side. When the snow begins to fall, he curls up in a hollow tree trunk on a bed of his newly decorated leaves and falls asleep ‘til the next fall. VioraA НАТСИ. PENNELL INSTITUTE “BABE” GETS REVENGE Babe Johnson had been out of prison two days. He had, in those two days, formu- lated a plan for revenge. The object of his vengeance was District Attorney Whitmore. Whitmore was the man who had put the “Dabe” behind bars. Now, he would pay. “Babe” had served six years: too long a time to forget about. Johnson had collected materials for the carrying out of his plan. All was in readiness. It was on Friday, the thirteenth of Septem- ber, that “Babe” went through with his idea. Eleven o'clock at night, Babe put his equipment in a black satchel and went to Whitmore's house. In the satchel he had dynamite, caps, and wire. In his pocket were a flashlight, jackknife and a .38 caliber auto- matic for emergency. At Whitmore's home, “Babe” jimmied a cellar window open and climbed in. Snap- ping on his flashlight, he looked the cellar over. Yes, this was perfect. Over in the corner was that which he looked for — the electric meter. Babe worked swiftly. He wired the meter, put the caps on the dynamite, and connected it to the wired meter. That was perfect. When Whitmore woke up and turned on a light, the meter dial would turn. When that happened the dynamite would ex- plode. “Babe” put away his tools and started for the window. Patrolman O'Reilly was walking his beat half a block from the D. A.'s house. At eleven fifteen P. M., the whole world seemed to burst asunder. A livid sheet of flames shot fifty feet into the air. The noise was deafen- ing: the ground trembled and shook. Whit- more's house was blown to bits: Whitmore and “Варе” Johnson were both killed. “Babe's” handiwork had been ingenious. Nothing had gone wrong except that “Babe” didn't Know that the D. A. had an electric refrigerator. It started as “Babe” was going out the window. Austin Kvcu. Thirteen

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five-story building. The shadows cast by cruel hot tongues of flame contorted the fea- tures of the staring, fascinated multitude as they watched. Not far off a woman screamed ; and then broke into hysterical sobbing as her husband left her to join the hurrying, shouting men. A shower of sparks arose and became dim as the roof timbers started to give way. Suddenly one of the firemen dashed up the steps of the house, ignoring hands out- stretched to stop him — voices, urgent and pleading, shouting that it was too late, he would be killed. Without hesitation, he went into the house. Smoke, thick and black, bil- lowed forth from the windows. Suspense held each one in its icy grip. Wind whipped the smoke around in circles and bore it down. The rain slashed at the flames, but it seemed only to make them burn fiercer, А shudder arose from the crowd as the last timber gave away and the roof crashed into the depths of the blazing in- ferno, The shudder changed to a gasp of surprise, as the young fireman staggered from the blazing building with a large bag over his shoulder. Passing the bag to one of the others, he let himself be guided away from the hustling scene. Opening the bag the fireman brought out a small fox terrier. A small boy dashed to the pupny's side and started petting him. A ring- ing cheer arose from the crowd for a fireman who would risk his life to save a dog's life and make a little boy happy. OLIvE HITCHCOCK. JOY IS WHERE YOU FIND IT Everyone has heard someone else say that Mr. “So and So had a lot of money ; but he wasn't happy because he was a miser, and he never bought any luxuries. I don't agree with this! That man is probably happier be- ing a miser than you or Г are spending money on amusements. PENNELL INSTITUTE =-= m Different people have different tastes. Did you ever see a person crying over a sad scene in a movie? I have talked with people who do this, and they say that crying in movies makes them happy. I once heard someone, talking about me, say, “Не can't be very happy because he is always too serious.” They didn't realize that I can get more joy out of life by being seri- ous than by being “full of the devil.” It is the fact that everyone has some pecu- liar tastes that makes this world such an in- teresting place in which to live. If everyone enjoyed the same things, the earth would he a very dull place. So, before you criticize a person, stop and realize that he may have some tastes completely different from your own. ROBERT SLATER. “BEING A FEMALE MYSELF—” Having carefully read the article, “Utopia, Feminine Model,” I laid down my worn and thumbed copy of Readers Digest and laughed scornfully at the author’s imagina- tion. He had certainly let it run away with him this time! I, being a female myself and thus feeling qualifed to know, decided that either Billy Rose had somehow acquired a warped idea of womanhood or else he just felt like writing a lot of breezy sentences. Whatever the case, I was filled with right- eous indignation and a grim determination to defend our fair sex. I shall proceed to do so here. In the first place, if we girls were allowed, to run the world our way, we most certainly wouldn't have colored buildings, of course. ( However, if we did we'd have some bright colors like red or purple to suit the temper- mental ones, not just pastel shades.) As for our having common air replaced by Chanel No. 3 —that is ridiculous. Do you think we'd make ourselves ill just for th» sake of being surrounded by a sweet aroma? Nope! (Besides—it would cost too much.) Fifteen