Reading Memorial High School - Pioneer Yearbook (Reading, MA)

Page 11 text:

CHRISTMAS 19 3 9 So fill your lungs and sing it out and shout it to the ? sky, We’ll fight for dear old Reading, for a Reading man am I! We may not live forever on this jolly good old sphere, But when we do we’ll live a life of merriment and good cheer. And when our high school days are o’er and night is drawing nigh, With parting breath we’ll sing that song: A Reading man am I!” r» • We opened our mouths to ask the spirit another question, but it sort of slid behind Shakespeare and off the shelf. As we gazed after it stupidly from the top of the stepladder, it turned. “Tell them about me,” it called, waved a flipper, and disappeared through the wall. Ruth Shumaker WHAT PRICE POPULARITY? Nothing worth having is free! This rule applies to intangible things as well as to the material things in life. We all crave the good opinion of others and right¬ ly so, for what others think of us may be the determining factor in deciding whether we are to be a success or failure in life. We all plan to do some sort of pro¬ ductive work for a living and what our early associates in life think of us may influence us indefinitely. Those who are considering employing us usually depend upon what others say about us to gain their first impressions of us. Anyone who thinks that popularity is just an ac¬ cident fools only himself. One cannot go blundering through life depending solely on his physical attributes; he must cultivate the art of pleasing people. While some people are born with more natural abilities than others in this respect, all may develop a workable imi¬ tation by willingness to practice certain rules of con¬ duct. Most good musicians, athletes, actors, or mem¬ bers of any profession are popular if they please the public. Not all of us can be musicians, athletes, or ac¬ tors, but all of us can please people. This editorial is written without apologies to Dale Carnegie, for surely none among us would presume to set ourselves up among our classmates as examples of popularity. However, we are all familiar with certain types that R. H. S. could do without. Let’s mention a few of these with whom we’ve all come in contact. ho has not been annoyed in class by the boy or girl who laughs loudly at the slight mistakes of others? lhen, there are always those who criticize everything about the school and have no school spirit. 1 hese people never enter into sports activities themselves, et if they go to a game of any sort, they spend the time criticizing the team, the cheerleaders, the band, and anything at all connected with the sport. Is there anyone who enjoys listening to a long harangue on some inconsequential subject by someone who can gain attention in no other way? The student who spreads malicious gossip among his classmates is not only a type which R. H. S. can do without, but is a real menace to society. We all know the heckler, and we hate to see him coming if we are having a good time. He is usually a poor sport and cannot stand the success of others. Perhaps no one annoys us quite so much, however, as the classmate that rushes up to us breathlessly, day after day, and begs the use of our math or Latin homework paper. It always happens, it seems to us, the morning after we have been up until the wee small hours over a parti¬ cularly tough assignment. We feel more like giving him a piece of our minds than the math or Latin paper. In¬ stead, we are foolishly apt to produce the work and hand it over. But the real rub comes when friend bor¬ rower blows around the next day and brags how he rated an “A” in Math, and we, only a “B”! We deserve to suffer, though, for harboring such a shirker. This brings us to the show-off type. He usually has about as much to brag about as the student who sails through on borrowed work. He so rarely does do anything worthy of mention that he surprises himself as well as everyone else, and he simply must talk about his achievement. Quite often he does the same thing over and over again if someone makes the fatal mistake of smiling when he attempts to be funny. He is the fellow who laughs at his own jokes, which are either old or terribly strained from over-use. We have a few of this kind of people in Reading High School and could do very nicely with fewer. Finally we come to one of the most troublesome and annoying types—the one who refuses to listen to committees and tries to improve on the vote of the majority. Invariably, after a matter seems all settled, he pops up in the meeting with a silly question about the whole thing. Well, each one of us has his own weaknesses and he must be willing to recognize them, whether or not they fall into these classes. In other words, if the shoe fits, let’s put it on! There is no sadder spectacle in life than a person who has reached middle age without knowing the joy of having friends. Yet who can hope to have friends without striving to please those with whom he comes in contact, both by doing thoughtful things and by elimi¬ nating those things which are disagreeable to others? If we do the things that make us well thought of by fel¬ low students, we have little to fear about ha ing friends in later life. Being popular is a state to which each and every student in Reading High School should aspire. This does not mean that we must attract the glances of every passerby, nor do we need to be glamorous. Such people are usually rather tiresome as a matter of fact. Popularity means being the sort of person that other people like to have around. Carolyn Campbell

Page 10 text:

THE PIONEER risen far had not death brought his promising career to an abrupt end. That summer, he was killed in an auto¬ mobile accident. It was a tragic end—those who knew him intimately were stunned by it. His mother summed up his life accurately when she said that he had lived eighty years in thirty. We are sorry that death deprived us of the chance of meeting Harold Stevens personally. We did, however, have the honor of meeting his mother, who kindly supplied us with the information we have used here. Harold Stevens was always very neat and precise. Every book in his library was cataloged and all his other possessions were arranged in perfect order. In a box he had some of his most treasured possessions: a few medical magazines that contained his articles, and at the bottom, among other sundry articles and docu¬ ments, seven copies of the Pioneer, whose well-thumbed pages showed that they had been referred to often. We have in our possession these same Pioneers with his penciled notes scrawled on the outside covers. We re¬ gard them with a kind of reverently inspired awe. Far as Harold Stevens climbed since he left Reading High, far as he traveled, he always kept these seven copies of the Pi oneer with him. In the corridor, outside Room 1, hangs a picture. Beneath it is a caption which bears the name of Harold Sherburne Stevens. Carleton Adams ON THE CARE AND FEEDING OF SPIRITS There’s been a lot of discussion lately about school, spirit, so, being naturally curious, we decided to look around for it. We certainly didn’t expect that finding it would be such a task as it turned out to be, so we started our search eagerly. First we looked in all the obvious places: in the classrooms, in the hall and the cafeteria, at the games, in the library, at assemblies—but no luck. Then we looked in desks, in lockers, behind doors, in the stock room, among the ivy. Where could we find a spirit? Desperately we went over the school again, even looking behind the statuary, but finding only dust. Finally we got a stepladder and climbe d up to look in back of the bust of Shakespeare on the first floor. Amazedly we stared at what confronted our weary eye. There, sheltered by the worthy hard, lay a small, curled- up ball of something white; it looked surprisingly like a very little ghost. While we gaped at it unbelievingly, it sat up slowly, rubbed its eyes with a spectral fist, and blinked at us. We stammered, “Are you the School Spirit? It nodded sadly. As it settled its nearly trans¬ parent littleness comfortably against the bard’s white¬ washed shoulder, we sat down dazed on the top of the stepladder. “The Spirit of Reading High School?” we repeated. “Yes,” it said. We stared at it and realized sud¬ denly that it was extremely small, pale, and under¬ nourished, hardly big enough to be called a true spirit; more than that, it looked hungry right at that minute. As if in answer to our thought, it piped, “I’m nearly starved. The students here are supposed to keep me fed, but they hardly give me enough to exist on. I guess they’ve tried to help me, but not very hard. Perhaps they just don’t care.” It choked a little. We choked sympathetically. “Oh, yes, they do,— or, that is, they would if they knew about you. That’s it! They don’t know you! Why, I had never seen you till now. What do you eat, anyway?” The School Spirit sniffed a sniff almost as small as itself and said, “Air. Warm enthusiastic air, even hot air—the kind you find at rallies, football games, in propaganda for Reading High School; you know, when they sing with the band and cheer the team on, whether they’re winning or not. Such things are like spinach to me. I could do with some nice warm atmosphere or a bit of propaganda now. I know there are cheer leaders; they are trying hard to help me, and even though they may not realize it, they are helping me. I felt pretty good not long ago at one of those rallies. When they started to cheer, I wanted to get up and cheer with them.” It patted Shakespeare’s plaster ruff thought¬ fully, and stood up. “The new baton squad helps, too, when they march behind the band and twirl their sticks.” “It sounds as if there were lots of things to keep you fed,” we ventured. “Oh, that’s it,” sighed the Spirit; “lots of things, but not enough of any of them. I think, though, that they’re beginning to wake up.” It put its very little paw into a mysterious pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. Looking at us with its burning dark eyes, it said, “This is a new song; I keep it in my pocket in case I get too hungry. It’s called ‘A Reading Man Am I!”’ We recognized this paper as identical with one in our own possession, and after searching in our purse, found the article in question. We read it: “I am a Reading man, sir, and I live across the green; Our gang it is the joiliest that you have ever seen. Our co-eds are the fairest, and each one’s a shining star; Our yell, you hear it ringing through the mountains near and far; Who am I, sir? A Reading man am I; A Reading man, sir, and will be till I die, Ki! Yi! We’re up to snuff; we never bluff, we’re game for any fuss. No other gang of high school men dare meet us in the muss. F our

Page 12 text:

THE PIONEER There was once a middle-aged cobbler who sat one blustering winter evening before his fire, hunched over the last which held the boot he was working on. To the left of the hearth hung kettles and pans, which but dully reflected the light. Everything was bare, from the heavy, smoked beams, which were not far above his head, to the wide board floor, from which much of the paint had been worn. No curtains were at the windows or around the bedstead, though one faded chintz drapery hung be¬ fore the closet. The table was bare and so were the chair and the two stools, one of which the cobbler was sitting on. The only piece of furniture which had once seen a more luxurious setting was a grandfather’s chair, now dingy, worn, and spotted. “Good evening, Cobbler Barren,” said a voice some¬ where in the room. The cobbler started, having seen no one enter, and looked around anxiously for his visitor. “Good evening, sir, distinctly repeated the voice in his ear. “Come on, show yourself if you’re an honest fel¬ low! If not, I don’t want anything to do with you! Come on; step up!” shouted the cobbler, both anger and fear rising within him. “Ho! ho! he! he! I bet you can’t find me!” chirped the voice again, this time in his other ear. “So you think it’s a game of hide-and-seek! Well, I used to be a match for anyone at that game, too. But I’d like to know who you think you are, fooling with me like this! You deserve to be hanged,” roared the cobbler, who now arose with a grumble, looked behind him, and stamped around the room searching under the chairs and bed and peering behind the closet drapery. But though the flickering shadows cast by the fire start¬ led h im several times, nothing unnatural could he see. “Am I dreaming?” he queried as he sat down to his work again. “But surely 1 did hear a voice.” Just then he looked up, and his jaw dropped as he beheld his tormentor, a misformed, bandy-legged little fellow glee¬ fully dancing on the stool at the right of the hearth, his fat little sides and hunched back shaking with silent laughter. For a few moments neither could draw him¬ self together enough to speak, but finally the cobbler’s anger overcame his awe and so he spoke first. ”So you think it’s funny to interrupt an honest cobbler in his work—and all for no good reason! Come, speak up for yourself. If you—” “Not so fast, not so fast, my good friend,” respond¬ ed the gnome. “I really didn’t mean any harm to you. Besides, you might as well like me, for you’re going to see me often. My name is Snickersnivel.” But the cobbler’s passion was not pacified, and so Snickersnivel, perching himself on the mantelpiece with his feet dang¬ ling, shifted the subject. “You were thinking of your little lost Hans, weren’t you?” “Yes,” returned the cobbler, staring at the fire in a pensive and gloomy mood, “five years ago, just be¬ fore Christmas, when Hans was only eleven years old, he wandered into the Magic Forest and so was lost. At least, that is what the villagers say. The child believed that the magic of the forest lay in the fact that it held a pool which, if one washed therein, would make one very wise. He said that an angel had told this to kirn in a dream and had also said that the people dreaded the forest because they had forgotten what was magic about it. In spite of my pleadings, he went, and I have never seen him since. Nevertheless, I’m not convinced he went to the forest at all. I think he ran away to seek his fortune. He used to say he was going to.” “But why would he run away?” interrupted Snick¬ ersnivel. “Well, Hans was a disobedient boy, and I often had to punish him. He didn’t like it, but it was all for his own good. He was always dreaming and imagining things. Naturally, I used to get provoked because he would never have his mind on his work. If I set him to watch the gruel while I went out to chop some more wood, he would forget to stir it and it would scorch without his even smelling it.” Here the old man shook his head. “Yes, he was a lazy rascal and I guess he got what he deserved when he was lost, if that is what has happened to him. I wouldn ' t want him back if I weren’t getting old and in need of someone. Hans has got to come back. And if he doesn’t come back soon, I’ll—” but the cobbler ground his teeth for the rest of the threat. Then he sig hed. “No one ever thinks of me now. No one ever comes to visit me. Christmas after Christmas goes by, but no one ever takes pity on me or gives me anything. Hans always used to do something, I’ll say that for him anyway. Every Christmas, I look for him to come back. I don’t know why, but I do.” Having finally finished the boot he had been working on, the cobbler looked up, but Snickersnivel had disappeared. So he decided to go to bed. The next morning he was awakened by someone yanking at his hair. “Come on, Old Cray Hairs,” called Six