Ricker Classical Institute - Aquilo Yearbook (Houlton, ME)

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Childhood Memories I remember the sweet saltiness of the fog on my lips, I still taste it as I did then when I came up from the shore. I can see the shoreline with its ledges and stretches of beach-gravel , hear the trickling of tiny freshets running over the slate rocks and the scrunching of seaweed under my bare feet. I shiver recalling the chill of cold water srlashed against my bare knees. I can hear the screech- ing of the herring gulls, see them as they weave in and out, milling overhead above the waste from the fish factory. I feel again the lonesomeness of a damp fall night, hear the comforting sound of the foghorn and then as if in answer the whistle of the tanker as she nears the oil wharf. I can look at my ink-smudged fingers and see instead the blue of blueberry stains. I can taste the lusclousness of the fruit and feel my mouth pucker at the bitterness of one lone, green berry. I remember the smell of hay as I helped tramp it with the nelghbor's chlildreng re- member the dusty smell of the same hay when it was used for litter in the henpens in the fall. I awaken in the morning and almost hear the cackllng and clucklng of the hens which I heard every morning in my youth. I can smell the pens, the ammonia smell of them on rainy days. I remember such things as the smell of tallow melting and old leather which had been left outside, the cold damp no e of my dog pressing against my hand, the piny smell of green wood which we burned in the kitchen stove. Again I remember the smell of my grandmothers house -- the sweet smell of spices mixed with the strong odor of curd sputtering on the back of the stove. I recall the sound of my grandmothers chuckle and see again how it started back of her eyes and shone its way into sound. Harriet McFadden Junior College, '42 Destiny Intervenes It was a cold, stormy night in late November that found Tony Gillespie trudg- lng wearily homeward. As he climbed the steps to the third-rate rooming house where he had been living since he came to the city, he began turning over in his mind the events leading up to this terrible night. Once inside the house he inquired from the landlady whether there had been any calls for him, hoping desperately that someone had answered one of the many applications he had filled. No, she answered in her harsh voice, and lf'n ya don't pay some a' yore room rent, I won't be takin' no calls fer ya, if there is any, which ain't likely. Yes, I'll attend to it. he replied hum- bly, stumbling up the stairs, weak from hunger, exhaustion, and hopelessness. In the privacy of his dilapitaded room, he threw himself on the rickety iron bed and gave himself up to thought. Let me see, he mused, it's just six months since I came to the city. In that time I have had two part-time jobs which lasted a week or so apiece. Nobody needs a radio technician to work anyway! God! I would take any kind of work I could get but there is none. To think that only six short months ago, I left Beaumont, Texas, to come to this great metropolis, thinking that by this time I would be sitting on top of the world! During his reminiscence, he had gotten up from the bed and was pacing nervously up and down the tiny room. Look at me, he said to himself dis- gustedly. A complete flop, a failure. He walked over to the broken cardboard wardrobe that served as his closet, to see if by chance there was something left that would bring a little at the pawn- broker's. No, there was nothing left but his shabby, threadbare overcoat which he must keep if he was to survive at all. As he closed the wardrobe, he glanced up on top of it where the landlady kept her meager supplies. His glance fell on a bottle marked poison. H'm, he said thoughtfully, poison. Downstairs the telephone clanged loudly, interrupting the crochety old landlady's supper. Dang it, she muttered to herself as she went to answer it. From the other end of the wire came a business-like. impersonal voice. Do you have a Mr. Tony Gillespie rooming at your house? it inquired. Yes, yes, croaked the old landlady ln her irritable manner. Out with it, what d'ye want with him? This is the W. D. C. Broadcasting Company where he filled an application for radio technician and we would like him to report for work tomorrow morning, went on the voice. Jlst a minute. boomed the landlady. I'll call him down and let ya talk to him. Hold the wire a minute. Mr. Gillespie, she roared. Oh, Mr. Gillespie! But there was no answer from above. Isabelle Richards '43

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Remember Pearl Harbor The snow flakes silently floated down from above and made a fleecy coverlet under which the little town of Greenville lay. The fur trees looked as if they'd been frosted with sugar icing. The stately elms lifted their stiff arms to heaven making grotesque shadows on the snow. Smoke gently curled from the chimneys of the humble cottages, and yellow streams of light gleamed from the windows. The app- earance was truly that of a toy town, but it wasn't. Human beings lived inside the houses. They worked and played, laughed and cried, just as you and I do. Greenville, like every other town was working with what small resources it had for national defense. That night the wom- en of the church were holding a knitting bee for the Red Cross. The men were or- ganizing a Home Guard Unit and selling defense stamps and bonds. Slowly coming down Elm Street, trudged a small boy and his inky black, spaniel dog. The boy's name was Roger and his dog's was Night. Gee, Night, .it's gettin' colder n' the roads' awful full of snow. We'll have to get to the church though 'cause if we don't we'll be unpatriotic said Roger childfishly talking to his pet, and stammering over the big wo1'd. Night, his long silken ears nearly dragging on the ground, and his short stubby legs stumbling in the deep snow, gazed up at his playmate with somber brown yees and wagged his tail as a sign of agreement. To the six year old boy, thinly clad in old blue nickers and worn red jacket, the remaining four blocks to the community church seemed like one hundred miles. Yet he plowed on, determined to do his part and be patriotic. Sometimes Roger would pick up Night, brush him off, squeeze him inside his jacket, and carry him that way. This pro- cedure was carried on several times un- til they reached the church. Well, Night, here we are, he panted. Let's go in and get warm. Vlfith a yip of delight the dog followed Roger into the warm building. There were many people assembled around a stone fireplace. Some of the women were knitt- ing, and others just wandering among the group talking. Roger's mother had told him the deacons and pillars of the church would be there. He didn't see anyone that resembled a pillar, but maybe the fat lady in the corner would be one. She looked very soft. I'll have to make myself small to get to the fireplace, he thought to himself. Just then a lady with horn rimmed glasses glared at him and said, You naughty boy! Get that dirty old dog out of here! Another remarked, Whoever let that little brat in here? Someone else kicked Night and pushed Roger back towads the door. Big tears were welling up in the eyes of the hurt boy, but he mustn't cry. He was a big boy and going to be a sailor. Sailors didn't cry. Juts then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up into the face of a strange man. A Well, sonny, you seem to be having difficulties, he said. Come on over in this corner with me, and bring that fine pun too. Bashfully Roger followed the man to a bench where he sat down beside him with Night .in his lap. Now let's you and I get acquainted, said the stranger. My name is Dick, What's yours? My name is Roger n' my pup's is Night 'cause he's so black, answered Roger. He's my best pal and came clear from Thrush's Hollow with me tonight. That's where Mom and I live. What does your father do, Roger? asked Dick. Roger bit his lip and then looked straight into the stranger's kind eyes and said My Dad lives in heaven. You see, he died at Pearl Harbor n' he's a hero. I've got to live up to his name and take care of Mom. IShe's the prettiest and best Mom in the world. Confidently Roger told his new friend, Dick, all about his parents and his ambi- tion to be a sailor like his dad. Finally Dick interrupted, But what brought you here on such a stormy night? A look of incrdeulous surprise flickered over the boy's face and he replied, Why I've come to buy defense stamps to help Uncle Sam. I get twenty five cents a week carrying in wood for Mrs. Gardner. Mom says Dad would want me to be pat--pat- riotic, he stammered. Dick gazed at Roger in ,silence and then said, Son, your father did a great thing for his country, and your mother must be a wonderful woman. Just keep remember- ing Pearl Harbor and you'1l never go wrong. It's boys like you and with your spirit that will make the United States victorious. With these words Dick took from his pocket a paper and presented it to Roger saying, This is a gift to the greatest little patriot in the country. Of course the gift was a. United States Defense Bond. Janice Robinson '43

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Scheme of Revenge The huge, black locomotive sped stead- ily on through the night. Its form could be dimly outlined against the dark horizon. Nearer and nearer it was coming to its fate. 'On board, travelers slept peace- fully, wholly unaware of the impending tragedy--that is, all except one. Travers sat smoking in the lounge car. He might have appeared very calm to any fellow passenger -- had there been one awake. But within him there was a tumult, for he knew what was coming! Moreover, the scheme had been conceived in his own brain! He was risking his own life, wicked though it was, to gain revenge because of his hatred for another! Would he be just- ified in doing so? His eyes twitched ner- vously as he thought of this. He wore the frightened expression of one who looks ahead in fear of his own fate. Suddenly, that fearful expression changed to one of irony. Would he, Travers, be Death's vic- tim instead of the one whom he intended? Would some wicked Fate decree that it was not for him to live longer? Foolish thoughts! His chances were greater by far than those of his victim's. Gradually now the train began to slack- en speed. Now was the time for action. He knew they were nearing the bridge which only he under pressure. knew was ready to crash He stood up and pushed through the door of the car to stand a moment on the platform. He reviewed the details of his plan surely and quickly. He had taken one big chance, to ride as near as was safe to the scene of the wreck, to make sure of his victim's presence there. Presently, with the agility of a cat, Travers swung himself from the steps to the ground below. His move was timed to a few seconds. He had barely time to coll- ect his thoughts before the inevitable happ- ened. Travers saw the sickening bend of the crippled bridge under the weight of the cars. He saw the horrid mass of steel. human bodies, and water after that deaf- ening crash. He put his hands to his eyes, realizing now the greatness of what he had done. He stood silent a moment. Then suddenly his eyes became glazed. Pm glad! he shouted hysterically. Glad, glad! And even in the din following the crash his mad, shrieking laughter could be heard piercing the night. Deane Ingraham '43 On Getting In After Midnight l wonder how many of us have ever stopped to think of the different methods which the so called night-hawks employ in entering the house after midnight. First, there is the per on, let us call him type one, who comes quietly up to the front porch and tries the door. Upon finding it locked, he doesn't try the back door as you would think but punches the door bell and remains on it until father staggers down and opens up. Then there is type two who prefers to avoid one of dad's midnight pep talks. This person gently tries the front door and upon finding it locked tries all the windows. Of course, thesd also are locked tight. Father al- ways did take unnecessary precaution against burglars! Ah, the cellar windows! Yes, there's one wide open! Isn't that just like those who are too precautious! Stealthily type two edges through the narrow slit and carefully lets himself down to the cellar floor. Now he gropes his way through the dark until he finds the cellar stairs. He stumbles slowly up them until he reaches the kitchen. What a re- lief! Of course this type two doesn't turn on a light! He doesn't have to do so be- cause he has done this so often he knows just Where to step. lAt least he thinks he doeslj Carefully he proceeds through the kitchen into the dining room and parlour. As yet he has encountered no opposition but walt! What's this? Yes, one of Junlor's toys which he forgot to put away. Does our prowler step on it? Of course not! He steps over it and creeps carefully up to his room. From here he lets out a sigh of relief. Safe again! At last there is type three who is the extreme opposite of type two. He has a key to the front door but he certainly doesn't creep up to it. He stomps up to the door and noisily fits the key into the lock. Does he hesitate about turning the lights on? Well, I guess not! First he clatters and I mean clatters out to the kitchen for a drink. Then he turns the radio full blast while he dlsrobes and hangs his clothing on all the furniture. After this procedure is finished, he extingulshes the lights and clomps upstairs. Still whist- ling he starts to undress tl mean put on his pajamasll At last he's in bed and things are once more quiet. What a re- Iief! Well my friend, which of these types are you? None? I didn't think so! Of course you are always in bed at that late hour! Dorothy Flynt '42