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

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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

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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

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CHRISTMAS 19 3 9 Snickersnivel. “Get up. Didn’t you know that Hans is coming back today? If you will go to his mother’s grave, you will find him,’ the gnome added in a whis¬ per. With that Snickersnivel vanished and Cobbler Barren was left wondering whether he had been dream¬ ing or not. From early morning to late afternoon the cobbler sat at the grave, but no one appeared. Finally a soap bubble burst on his face, provoking a tickling sensation and a series of sneezes, and Snickersnivel fell into his lap. “What are you doing here—” teased Snickersnivel, “seeking your fortune?” Go away, you rascal, ' sang out the astonished and enraged cobbler, who immediately turned on his heels to go home. “Come back, come back, you old fool,” shouted Snickersnivel; “I just saw Hans near the Magic Forest and came to tell you.” So the cobbler returned to where the gnome was, for he wanted Hans more than he wanted not to please the gnome. On and on walked the cobbler, with Snick¬ ersnivel secretly riding in his pocket. Finally they reached the edge of the forest. Here Snickersnivel told the cobbler to follow the path to a tall fir tree standing in the middle of an open space. Then he was to follow the left path to a poplar grove, where he would find Hans asleep on the ground. Snickersnivel then disappeared and the cobbler trudged on his way. Upon arriving at his destination, he looked high and low, but no Hans could he see. Hark! Footsteps! Were they Hans’ footsteps? They grew louder and louder as if someone were approach¬ ing, and then as they died away he heard a voice airily calling out, “Ha! ha! I’ve fooled you again!” “You wretch!” he cried. “You wait until I get hold of you!” But when he perceived that it was only the air at which he was yelling, he felt very foolish. “What shall I do?” he wondered, for the sun had gone down and he would not be able to get out of the forest before dark. After pondering for a few minutes, he began bunching up a great pile of leaves. When he had piled on some brush to keep the leaves from blowing away, he crawled into the pile and endeavored to go to sleep. But sleep would not come. He was afraid. He was afraid of the damp darkness, of the Magic Forest, of the lunging shadows of the swaying trees. They took on all sorts of horrid shapes—huge monsters with large heads and thin, serpentine bodies; gigantic boulders tha seemed to come relentlesslv toward him and that vanish¬ ed when they were about to crush him; fire-eating drag¬ ons; witches at their cauldrons. I he wolf-like howl o ' the wind, the creaking and moaning of the limbs of the trees, the rustling of the leaves—all made his hair stain, on end and caused the shivers to run up and down hi spine. When he finally fell into a restless slumber, it was only to dream of Hans. In his dream, he saw the boy visiting the hut during the day and finding it emptv. Evidently thinking that his father was dead, he went away, saying he would not return. Cobbler Barren awoke with a heavy heart and returned to his lonely hut the next morning. Hans did not come that year, nor the next, nor the next, though the old man waited for him more feverishly each year. However, each year at Christmas, Snicker¬ snivel appeared to pester him. Thus four more years passed, and the cobbler was still living in seclusion, still thinking only of his own needs and wants, still wondering why someone didn’t befriend him. Then came the tenth year since Hans had disappeared. It was Christmas Eve. A grotesque, little figure was hurrying through the village on his way to the cob¬ bler’s hut, but while he was still in the village with its neat, little, gable-roofed cottages, all alight with Christ¬ mas candles and cheer and festivity, the voices of happy children caroling the yuletide songs arrested his atten¬ tion. “Just one peek, thought Snickersnivel. “It would be too bad to go right to Cobbler Barren’s dreary hut and miss all this fun.” But after watching the children receive a shower of gifts and bonbons from a jolly Saint Nick, he decided he must follow the man. From house to house of the poorer folk went this good Saint Nick, shedding cheer with his every visit, for he told the children little stories and patted each one’s head before leaving. At each house were carols, presents, games after Saint Nick had departed, and always hap¬ piness for everyone. “How lovely, thought Snicker¬ snivel; “I wish old Cobbler Barren would stop thinking only of himself and do something like this. Then he would enjoy life and friends, and people would enjoy him. Ho hum! It’s getting pretty late,” sighed the gnome as he followed Saint Nick, this time down a short, wooded path, probably to the old fellow’s home. “I wonder where he lives, thought Snickersnivel. But suddenly he cried to himself, “Look! The man is taking off his mask! Why, I do believe it is—the cobbler!” and then the gnome stopped short, a look of strange de¬ light crossing his face. “Well, of all things!” was all Snickersnivel could utter as he went on. Once the cobbler was home, Snickersnivel called out from the nether parts of the room, “Good even, Cobbler Barren.” “Ah! tis you again, answered the cobbler, benevo¬ lently beaming upon the gnome, “and glad I am to see you. 1 was hoping you’d come.” Then after a pause he added, “And I hope Hans comes too. I have a feel¬ ing he reallv is coming this year. This last year I be¬ gan to see Hans in a new light. After all, he was a dear lad and tried his best to please me. He couldn ' t help it if sometimes his imagination did get the better of him and he forgot all else. What belaborings the poor boy used to get! Oh, 1 do wish I’d been kinder to him. It seems as if I want him more than anything else now. That is what has made me take an interest in the other children in the village, especially the ones who don ' t have the tops, books, and things they want. You see, 1 saw )ou tonight even if ou didn’t realize Seven