Rangeley High School - Tattler Yearbook (Rangeley, ME)

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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.

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The TATTLER Peter neither spoke nor moved for some seconds. Then he murmured slowly to him- self, She looked so strange. I'd almost think she came - on the wind - yes - out of the storm itself! MARGARET IRISH '46 AUTUMNAL BEAUTY Golden rays of sunlight darted about among jack F rost's tinted leaves. Blue rip- pling white-capped waves leaped and danced like elfin spirits upon the broad expanse of the century-old lake. Higher still, rose the azure peaks of the mountains whose faces were like that of the silent Sphinx. A whis- pering breeze stirred the dry leaves, which crackled faintly. The once-bright golden- rod had faded to a dingy brown eeced with white wool. Burrs beside the highway pushed out their sharp tongues and clung to passers-by. Acorns were ripening on gnarl- ed oaks. Bright Hitting butterflies had be- come transformed into furry little cater- pillars, hurrying lest they be stepped upon by some unheeding foot. The summer song of birds had faded and left only the excited chattering of the squirrels. Flowers had long since lost their hue and were as dry straw. Verdant green grass was now stained with the dull tan of autumn. The flushed fisher- man who had so proudly hooked a speckled trout now was replaced by the hunter togged in red, carrying a well-shined and oiled gun. The sun faded rapidly, leaving only a faint glow in the west. The busy farmer who had toiled so endlessly over his crops now sat on the porch steps. His grain, wheaty and nutlike, was piled high in the barn. His eyes wandered over the land which had yielded her increase some twenty-fold, some fifty-fold, and some an hundred-fold. The moon, full and mellow, rose above the dark firs in the east. Sailing high, he beamed upon drowsy Mother Earth. He smiled upon the bare birches, who reached out stark arms and reflected his glow from their silvery faces. Shrilling crickets tuned their fiddles and played long hours into the night. Seedtime and harvest had ended for an- other year. Autumn in all her beauty had wended her way to greet man. Surely peace had returned to a war-weary world! GRACE WILBUR '46 ON HUMAN EARS Some of our forefathers, the austere Puri- tans, for instance, might have claimed that God had no sense of humor. Being neither a good philosopher nor a good Puritan, I am not one to contradict the beliefs of our ascetic ancestors. Neverthe- less, I warrant that He does possess this rare gift. If He doesn't, then why did He make uman ears? Perhaps you have never even noticed our natural hearing aids. If not, I suggest that you observe the next pair that comes vour way. For obvious reasons, I advise that the victim of your scrutiny be one of the mas- culine species. Your victim's ears may be the flat, broad type-the kind that looks as if they had just been pinned down by the town bully. Or they may be the floppy kind. I remember one day last summer, as I was waiting for dinner to be served, I glanced up from my reading and in one quick glimpse saw the Dumbo variety silhouetted against the skv. I thought at the time that the pilot of that particular airplane had better come out of his dive before he crashed into the mountain. Absurd? Well, perhaps, but on an empty stomach one can imagine almost anything. Sometime ago as I was browsing through a magazine, I spied an advertisement. Of course in this day and age, there is nothing unusual about an advertisement, but this par- ticular one caught my eye - for the girl looked like an elf. I studied her face with utmost curiosity, and suddenly I knew. Her ears, they were pointed! Ears can make the person and the person can make the ears. If you don't believe me, just think what the plastic surgeons have done during the war! I-Iow appropriate it would be if one of our gossipy friends should sprout rabbit ears. And wouldn't your favorite swain look ridiculous with cocker spaniel ears! Yes, I really think God was in a very good mood when he decreed that each and every one of us should have two ears. Thev may be alike or unlike, big or little, flat or floppy, 16