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

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CHRISTMAS 19 3 9 it before I smack you with this?” Brandishing a sharp rock, Henderson walked toward the boy. “It should be here,” replied Red. “I can’t under¬ stand it. Honest, Jim. We’ll just have to keep on walk¬ ing until we strike it.” Weighing the rock in his hand, the thug hesitated a moment and then, heaving it away, he set out again without a word, only stopping to drink deeply from the canteen. On and on they marched, the two robbers sweating profusely and slowly exhausting their meager supply of water. Still Red marched forward, not seem¬ ing to mind the extreme heat and the fact that he had had no water from the canteen. Suddenly, to the left, a group of stunted green trees appeared. Racing into the green shrubs, Red soon reappeared and called to the murderers, “Plenty of water here. Hurry up!” Eagerly the others rushed toward the oasis and Red was about to go back to wait for them when he was stopped by Shaw’s harsh cry. “Come here, kid! You ain’t playing no tricks on us. You just stay where we can see ya hereafter.” Weasel staggered forward to the clear pool of refresh¬ ing water. He had just lowered his head to drink when a small sign nearby caught his eye. “Poison! Beware! the piece of cardboard read. Slowly Weasel got up and reeled over to Red. “Thought you’d lead us to a poisoned spring, did ya? Didn’t quite have time to steal the sign, you little rat. Take that!” Red reeled and fell from the heavy blow. “I didn’t know. I must have the wrong path. We can get through this way, though, if you can last out, Red muttered while he wiped his face on his blue denim shirt. “We’ll last out all right,” sneered Henderson; if a little guy like you can stand it, I guess we can. Now get up, and no more tricks or you 11 never get up again. The three men staggered on through the intense heat which was now at its midday peak. Gazing around. Red thought, “If I can only keep them going a few hours, I may yet revenge my pard’s death. Gee, I wish 1 had some water. But no more could he see. Hours and hours they marched. The two bandits were just barely able to walk—their lips swelled from dust and lack of water, their supply of which had long since been exhausted. Then again Red summoned them to an oasis, hut again the fatal sign “Poison! Beware!’ mocked them. The two men were silent now and doggedly plodded on, staggering with weak steps. Red, however, seemed to grow fresher than when he had started out. He walk¬ ed on steadily now, not seeming to mind the heat arid lack of water. “Come on, you tough guys. 1 thought you could take it. It’s only a couple of hours. What s the matter? 1 thought you were tough, you pair of tin¬ horn crooks! “You’ll find out who’s a tin-horned crook, you little rat! If you’re fooling us, you will never fool any- one again. Staggering up with his pistol, easel menaced the boy and then, almost falling, he lurched forward and waved him on. Red laughed bitterly to himself. If all went well, he could soon recover his gold and punish these mur¬ derers. He laughed when he saw the two men weaving their way behind him. They had been used to soft living and luxuries and were not accustomed to the extreme heat of the desert to which Red was inured by his years spent on the hot sands. The time was almost ripe for the culmination of his carefully conceived plan for out¬ witting them. Still another oasis loomed far ahead, just barely visible from where they were standing. “This is a good oasis ahead here,’ said Red. “We can get a rest and finish our trip tomorrow.” Without uttering a word, the two crooks started toward the green oasis at a lurching run. They ran only a few paces, however, and then settled back to their former slow gait. Slowly they strode on, covering step by step the distance separating them from water and cool shade. At last they reached the cool trees and shrubs. A spring bubbled noisily into a limpid pool, making the most welcome sight they had even seen. Throwing down their heavy bags, the murderers knelt and drank deeply in unison from the cool water. For a minute they knelt suspended over the pool, and then they both slumped forward into il with faces horribly distorted by the deadly alkaline poisons of the water. Slowly Red stood up and, reaching inside his shirt, drew out the sign which he had taken from this very pool that same morning. He fixed it again at the water ' s edge. It’s message “Poison! Beware!” had served him well. He smiled feebly and then walked to the little clump of trees. He must bury his partner decently now. Robert Sullivan ON WALLPAPER FOR CONVALESCENTS Have you ever been sick, really sick? Sick as a dog, in plain words? You have? Well, you know what it’s like then to lie abed week upon end and twist and heave like some old ship on her last journey. But at that. I bet you fared better than I ever did. Undoubtedly you had a lovely nurse, a sunny room, candy, atten¬ tion—well, you’re just a piker! The trouble with me G that I’m a bachelor, and whenever 1 get ill I’m stuck up in some hack room out of the way to get well or to die. So far I’ve always managed to get well. Now, since I am an experienced sick man and keep to the bed a hundred days out of every three hundred, I feel I am a fully competent expert at anything or any¬ one pertaining to illness and convalescents. In th vears I ' ve been at it I have been in a great number of rooms, and my pet peeves are those which boast wall¬ paper! I don ' t mind huge cracks that make one reel dizzily to trace them, sway ing chandeliers, squeaky beds, or rattling windows—they are inevitable and must be borne cheerfully by us sufferers. But wallpaper just slays me! I ' ll tell you why. Back in 25 after the long sea journey that I took to Capri, I returned home a wreck, a broken and dis-

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THE PIONEER wasp-waist corset. Three other salesgirls were called to help before I was finally properly laced into the hid¬ eous contraption, but the results were certainly gratify¬ ing! I hardly knew myself. “And Mademoiselle weel find zat since ze lacings are in place, she weel only have to pull ze zeeper up ze side in order to get into zeese sweet corset.” I wriggled the dress on over the new garment, and, as usual, dear Madame gurgled something poisonous, ending with, “Ah, ma petite, eet ees seemply too, too devastating!” The effect was devastating, and so was the price. I realized that my co-ed budget just wouldn’t stand a Molyneux dress and a Schiaparelli corset. I should have to choose between the two. Snatches of numerous beauty articles came flocking back to me, such as: “Cin¬ derella can wear her rags with the air of a queen, if she only has the ‘figger’, but the richest silks and satins will be nothing more than dowdy rags on a poorly built woman.” Well, the corset won. So there I was with a wasp-waist corset and a very anemic purse. In toto, it was too much. My savoir faire melted completely and I told all. I explained to Madame that was buying this outfit for a football game. I already had an evening dress, which Johnny had never seen before, and a fur great-coat, but I just had to have something to wear to the game, something which would knock my football-johnny over the moon. Madame suddenly seemed to light up as if a fire had been kindled way down inside of her. “Ah!” she cried, with the coziest chuckle I have ever heard, “zen you are not ze debutante hunting for ze tea frock! You are one of those—oh, what do you say?” She fluttered again. “Those co-eds! Oh, how I love you co-eds.” She seemed to beam all over. “Come, follow me. Zeese eez not ze shop for you.” And she led me to the college shop. She drew out rack after rack of skirts and sweat¬ ers. There were plain tweed skirts, skirts with multi¬ color flecks, plaid skirts, and striped skirts. There were straight, slim skirts, full, swing skirts, skirts with inter¬ esting belts at the waist, and pleated skirls. The sweat¬ ers, too, were of all colors, styles, and yarns imaginable. With Madame’s help, I finally chose a tweed skirt of 1 luscious grape color and a long, sloppy cardigan, that was minus the last button. All of this happened two days ago. Yesterday the express truck delivered my bundles, and I opened them as if I had a bad case of St. Vitus’ dance. But the beau¬ tiful castle was doomed to fall, for I opened the last bundle, and found the hill and (oh, horrors!) the wasp- waist corset. The bill was stupendous, but it dwindled into nothingness as the horrible realization came to me that I had spent my hard earned pennies on a wasp- waist corset to wear with a hip-length cardigan sweater. Oh treacherous Madame! The only bright spot left in my tragic life was the date with Johnny. Today the mailman came with a letter, the stamp on whi-h was up side down. Gleefully 1 opened it and scanned a page of details about trains and what-not, until I came to the last paragraph. This is what stared me in the face: “And remember, cherub puss, to wear that soft, blue wool dress that you wore to the house party last spring; it’s the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen. All the usual XXX, Johnny” Dorothy Babcock POISON! With his finger on the trigger and a horrible sneer on his face, Weasel Shaw prepared to kill the old man before him, and then hesitated. “Wait a minute, Jim,” he said to his friend, and with a sly and meaning look at Red Evans, the old man’s partner, “why waste a bul¬ let on this old codger? Let’s make grandpa take a nice cool drink of water outa this spring of poison water. We’ve only got two bullets and we might need ’em later. Heh, kid? Come on, grandpa, drink that water before I throw you in.” With a bitter laugh, Weasel pushed the old man to the brink of the pool and forced him to drink the deadly water. A horrible grimace on his race and his eyes fixed in the glassy stare of the dead, the old man’s body slumped into the placid water. Red Evans stood still. He just couldn’t realize that “Old Man” Haines, the only father he’d ever known, his bene¬ factor, his partner, and fellow prospector in their mine in the muontains, was dead, murdered by Weasel Shaw, well-known tough hombre and leading criminal of the West. “Come on, kid! Let’s get going! You’re the only one who can lead us out of here, and if you don’t hurry you’ll be pushing up daisies with this old duck.” Kick¬ ing Haines’ body scornfully, Jim Henderson, Weasel’s right hand man and body-guard, slapped Red sharply. Red thought desperately. What could he do? If he didn’t lead them from the desert, they wouldn’t hesi¬ tate to kill him and gamble on finding the way out them¬ selves. On the other hand, if he did lead these two cold-blooded murderers to safety, they would almost undoubtedly kill him, the only witness of their crimes. Red dragged Haines’ body into the shelter of the trees, trying to think of some means of revenge. Suddenly, a desperate plan came to him as he emerged and loitered for an extra minute or two by the pool, sparring for time and pretending to be more stunned than he was. His mind made up, Red slowly set out on the path after Weasel and Jim, a path which only he knew. Sweating and swearing, the two crooks, bearing the bags of rich, gold-studded nuggets which were the motive for their crime, allowed him to take the lead. The hot sun shown without mercy out of a brassy- sky, entirely devoid of clouds, upon the three travelers trudging through the hot, arid wastes that stretched on and on, seemingly indefinitely. Red kept in advance of the others until finally his reminiscences were interrup¬ ted. “Come on, kid. Where’s that water-hole you said was six miles from camp? We’ve been going for four hours and I ain’t seen none yet. Come on! Where is Fourteen

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THE PIONEER illusioned man. I was suffering from a phobia. I was seasick and how terra firma did roll and buckle. Why, I could even smell the salt, and every time I thought of Italian spaghetti—oh! Of course, I was confined to bed for a complete rest, and naturally the bed was in a room, a room with taunting wallpaper. It was green; if I dare presume so, a ghastly pale green that rolled and swirled in hideous scrolls, entwining itself in other green swirls sickening to look at. They twisted too en¬ ergetically and fairly snarled; I was literally knocked to my feet even by looking at them. If I gazed long enough on this piece of creative genius, it seemed to rotate and radiate like a spinning top. By the third day, the white polka dots around the border had grown before my blood-shot eyes into a fluctuating white cap effect. After a week of swirling in that green maze the bed seemed to sprout masts and I felt like yelling out periodically, “Ship ahoy!” After I quite violently threw that plate of hash at my nurse, however, I was moved to a more soothing room. Yes, I recovered. But to get on, I remember once in ’29 after the crash I lay a palsied and moaning wreck in a room just blasted with (of all colors) red! All kinds of red! It hung in suspended animation before my eyes, forming ticker tape. Now, it wasn’t that nice bright red that blinds one. No, it had been on those morbid walls for years, and it had dimmed into a dark red, vengeful, bloody, and all too suggestive of the recent predomi¬ nant hue of ink in the ledgers and books of my firm. I got out of that place by smoking in bed. Wait a minute; don’t go away. You know, I suffer horribly from hay fever and I hate, just hate, all kinds of flowers. Can’t stand the sight of them, even a picture of ' em makes me go off in a paroxysm on the spot. Well, the year I contracted pneumonia I had a room bedecked with lovely clumps and clods of daisies and golden rods worked out in a split complimentary color scheme of pink and yellow-green. I could just see the pollen waiting. Have you ever seen pink and yellow- green together? My old seasickness would return every- time I would glance at it. Of course, my hayfever took a bow and a return engagement. Those limpid, fetid blossoms which hung helter skelter about the room—I hated them so! I attacked those lurid posies with a nail file until there wasn’t a single pink and yellow-green bloom ablooming. Again in ’35, after attempting to come home from a honey of a party at Louie’s, I had rather a bad fall on the ice. (People do say it affected me mentally.) I was confined for six months to a small cell of a room em¬ bellished with a design that its creator no doubt thought a very precocious masterpiece. Personally, I detest those inane scenic wallpapers, and that’s what this was. I might have put up with a south sea theme, or a land¬ scape, or something reminiscent of spring and fair weather, but this was a winter group, depicting winter sports. Ice was the predominating background. A skier skidded across the baseboard, skaters whirled profusely between onrushing toboggans, and leering groups of people toasted one another over roaring fires. Well sir, I amused myself by throwing homemade darts at those inert creatures. I soon became very animated in my work. One day I observed my cousin Spider’s eight guage shot gun leaning invitingly in the corner. I blew three sides of that room to confetti. Well, these little narrations are just to explain and help trace for you that burning, grinding hate I hold for wallpaper. Then came ’39 and I had recovered sufficiently from my numerous maladies to move about. But I lived to regret it about three months ago! It happened at one of those fashionable garden parties given by Mrs. Cor¬ nelius Grieg Van Smuts, to which I rated a coveted in¬ vitation. The party had been a brilliant success and the guests even more so, the gentlemen accoutered in swallow tail coats, ascots, et cetera; the ladies, in long frocks and ridiculous hats. Everywhere guests were laughing and talking in congenial huddles. The younger set were dancing, and the rocking chair brigade were smiling and drooling into their beards. As I say, all went well until it began to rain, driving the guests to shelter. I always have said that “Corny” has a beauti¬ ful home; she keeps it decorated in the very essence of ultraness. Well, anyway, I dashed in to avoid an un¬ called for bath. Before the deluge I had been amusing a few onlookers by cutting, out of a folded newspaper, geegaws which they all called “clevah”. I was still armed with a formidable foot or so of shears. As l remember it, Lucille Batiste de Jaux was on my right and Baron Felix Armand Slush on my left as we turned the corner of the foyer hall. The lovely gilded doors of the drawing room stood open revealing the assembled guests. And then I saw it! I let out a bellow that shook the mirrors. That wallpaper! It was striped in orchid and pale fudge. It was too much for a man who had suffered as I had to bear. I know I didn’t stop scream¬ ing and yelling until I had cut off the tails on every dress coat in that room with those hungry scissors. Bar¬ on Slush’s longies became shorts in double quick time. Yes, I just love it here. It’s so quiet. I am ill, you know! But the walls are such a restful white. Those men in white are annoying at times, and those bars do get on my nerves, but there just isn’t a single solitary inch of wallpaper—that I know. Yeowee! Tom Connelly SAGA OF A CHRISTMAS PRESENT “Only two more weeks till Christmas!” The short printed line in the newspaper struck Lura in the face like a well aimed slap. Why hadn’t she remembered? And this Christmas she had planned to make with her own little lily-white hands a gift for Stanley. Only two weeks left. Whatever could she do; what could she make? 0, why hadn’t she remembered? A big tear rolled down Lura’s pretty, irresponsible cheek and fell into her lap. Stanley and Lura had been happily married for just three months; their quarrels were still silly things Sixteen