Rangeley High School - Tattler Yearbook (Rangeley, ME)

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The TATTLER CLASS OF '49 The freshmen began their school year by calling a class meeting for the purpose of electing oflicers. These were duly voted into their respective oflices as follows: Presi- dent, Donald Millbury, Vice-President, janet Carignang Secretary, Betty Verrill, Treasurer, Virginia Philbrick, member of Student Council, Rita Porter. The second week of school was one of terror for us, as the sophomores were initiat- ing us into the ways of high school. The girls were beautifully dressed in boys' knick- ers, sleeveless shirts, and out-dated shoes. An amazing array of jewelry was to be seen. The boys were perfect models of what the well-dressed tramps were wearing that sea- son. Their costumes consisted of green sweaters and shorts worn wrong side out and backwards, and enough make-up to paint a battleship. Both boys and girls were forced to bow to upperclassmen and declare that they were green. On the last evening of that frightful week, under the vigilant super- vision of the sophomores, we performed be- fore a large audience. We shall never forget how cute Annette Lamb looked on Arlen Wentzell's lap! janet johnson and Donald Millbury made a handsome married couple, with Janet as the husband and Donald play- ing the part of the blushing bride. Many of the girls in our class went out for basketball with Betty Verrill and Nat Ste- ward winning places on the first team. Arlen Wentzell represented the freshman boys. This spring we hope to put on a one act play under the supervision of Miss Shaw. With finals but a few weeks off, we are all making resolutions to study harder. Those who pass may be seen next year in the sec- tion of the Main Room reserved for the proud sophomores. SYLVIA HUNT '49 5 1 'f iq

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The TATTLER OUT OF THE STORM It was only late afternoon, but the fog wrapped its curling fingers around the trees, and its billowing whiteness clung weirdly to the lake as Aileen trudged wearily along the rough pebbly path that twisted and turned beside the lake's edge. She was a small girl, and in the gloomy mist, with the black trees poking their tops upward through the empty thickness and with the gray, choppy waves kicking spray toward her heels, she seemed smaller. She looked like a dainty fairy picking her way through a Titan's dark world. She walked upward toward a gigantic black rock that loomed out over the dark waves, and stood gazing out over the stormy, raging lake. While she stood high on the crag, silhouetted against a backdrop of gray fog, she was entirely unaware of a figure that watched her from far down the path. This dark figure was a young man who was walking along the lake shore, slowly, with the wind sweeping at his face and tear- ing at his jacket. I-Ie crunched along the wet path, his eyes fixed on that small figure which never turned, never wavered. I-Ie came up to the rock and paused. At that moment the figure turned away from the resounding crash of the hungry waves buf- fering and kicking at the black rock. She seemed to have sensed something almost be- yond this world. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out-no sound even if it could have been heard above the merciless pounding of the waves. The boy spoke un- certainly. Please don't be frightened! Only I couldn't help wondering what such a little girl as you are could be doing out in this kind of weather, and in a place like this. You looked so strange standing there. I won- dered if there was anything the matter. The little girl slowly picked her way down from the top of the slippery crag and perched half way down in a sheltered niche of the huge rock. Finally she spoke in a high-pitched clear voice. I was so afraid. Afraid? Of what? I was frightened by the waves, and the wind, and the noise. I don't know -I thought the storm would swallow me up, that the waves would drag me over the rocks? L'But whatever are you doing way out here, anyway? I don't know. I've been walking a long time-I guess I just had to stop somewhere. Tell me, what's your name? Mine's Peter. Aileen----. The boy strained to hear above the whistle of the wind, but he caught only her first name before the wind drowned her out. Please, don't bother about me. I'm all right, she protested. 'Tm used to coming out here. But you don't mind if I stay, you don't mind if I talk to you? The little girl shook her head slowly. As the two sat there, she perched high on the rock, and he standing below, the little girl almost seemed to change. She stopped shiv- ering, and he could almost make her smile. Suddenly he bent over and looked at his watch. My gosh! l've got to start back. This fog is getting thick and I want to make it home before it's too dark to see anything. You ought to have been home long ago, Aileen. Your mother's going to be awfully worried. As he spoke these words, the small girl seemed to change back again into her old self, that faraway sad look came over her face. I'll go soon, but Iim going to stay just a little while longer. He protested and argued with the little wind-blown figure, but she would not give in. He then turned up the collar of his jacket and clambered over the rocks and along down the pebbly path. When Peter reached home, he told his family about meeting the strange little girl. They listened intently as he described her: about eight years old, small and pale, and standing high on a crag with the wind tear- ing and twisting around her. just as he de- scribed her look of terrible anguish, his sister burst out, But, Peter! You couldn't-you can't- Aileen Manelle died a year ago. They found her body washed up near that same rock just about a year ago. It was right after a terrific storm, too.