Ricker Classical Institute - Aquilo Yearbook (Houlton, ME)

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So1dier's Return It was a cold, bleak, winter night. A northern gale was blowing across the hills and down through the narrow valley up to the door of a little tumbled down cott- age. All was dark except for the dim rays of a small oil lamp, which shed its beams through the broken window pane. A frail old lady was sitting in her rock- ing chair before a small, bright fire which played briskly about the wet logs in the fire place. Nothing could be heard except the howling of the wind and the gentle purring of an old cat which lay quietly at her feet. Her thin tired face was bending over a torn Bible which she held in her wrinkled hands. She was thinking of her two sons, one of whom had been killed in battle. Her youngest one had been called to serve two years ago. Six long weary months had passed since she had heard from him. Was he still living? Would he ever come home again? Oh, God, why did they have to take him? War was so cruel, so uncertain. Was this the way God plann- ed things to be? She opened her eyes and they fell on the words, Peace on earthy good will toward men. Peace on earth-- her son fighting to help ruin thousands of lives? Good will toward men--every nation striving to outdo each other? Thus the old lady sat thinking of her son, and little did she realize that two miles away a lonely looking figure was wading through the deep snow across the little valley. The fire was dying down, and the oil in the little lamp was nearly gone. The old lady fell to her knees, and there in the stillness of the night, she prayed to God to take care of her boy. The fire had diminished to a small bed of ashes. The light went out, and on her kneees in the dark the old lady still prayed. Suddenly she was aroused by a step on the door sill. She arose, and peering out the window, she saw a lonely figure look- ing in. Her heart leaped into her throat. Was it ---- ? Oh, God, had he returned? She opened the door, and with out-stretched arms she drew her only son to her breast, thanking God that He had brought him safely home. Evelyn Smith Love Let's raise our steins in a toast to love. To our sleepless nights and our exuberant daydreams. l, myself, being no great phy- siologist, cannot delve too deeply into this everyday occurence of two lonely hearts combined .into one great wave of passion- ate ecstasy. T do not know the feelings of this engulfing wave that causes sleepless nights, dreamy eyes. and chins and cheeks of blushing boys to become smooched with the war paint of their, as I see them, Amazonian companions. Thus warned of my ignorance on this subject, I partake to explain my theory. First let us take the story-book form, which to my limited knowledge, seldom happens. This form is love at first sight. Now a boy meandering down the street, notices a beautiful girl sitting in a parked out of state car. Suddenly between he and that girl's face framed by the auto's win- dow, there appears a beautiful scene. The organ of the church is softly playing and the best man and bridesmaids are there in wedding attire. He hears the beautiful words, I do, which in reality, is the mere cooing of a frightened pidgeon. Again his vision focuses on the girl and she smiles. She smiled! She smiled! Rushing to the car, he becomes acquainted with her and they have supper together that night. Home in bed we leave our meandering boy. Now straight walking with a quick step, he's quit smoking, drinking, and swearing. The magic wand of Venus has touched his heart without a second wave. Ages for this type are from sixteen to sixty. Then comes the very common species of puppy love. Before I delve, into this phase, I would like to say that I consider the word, puppy, very unappropriate, becau e dogs are smart in their belief that there is no love. They smell each other and take mating as a matter of na- ture's doings. Now puppy love is a very outspoken, unmodest form of l'amour. -In every school room, at every soda fountain, every place where young people congre gate, the unmistakable signs appear--blush- es, titters, holding hands, empty soda glasses, and fond cow-like gazes. Notes and letters in this stage are a very important element. These passionate, shall I say rather dangerous manuscripts, are over- flowing with 'Love and Kisses,' 'I Love You's,' 'S. W. A. K. 's,' 'Sweetheart's,' and all the other beautiful words of love. This is the type of romance in which the boy sees another girl and although he now is in the folds of love that radiate from his present feminine companion, two weeks later he is writing the some notes and giv- ing the same gazes and sighs to another girl. The ages for this form are between twelve to sixteen inclusive. Now comes thc college boy love. He been going with this charming, exotic for almost a year. He feels that their ments together have developed linto an en- has girl mo- undying solid structure of love now cased in his beating heart. He has dreams of a job, holding down ten thousand doll-

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Nightmares If I were a psychology student, it would not be necessary for me to introduce you to my plight. For I would have within my power the ability to analyz and remedy the malady which seizes me in its grip many nights. In short, I am a victim of nightmares. To verify this statement ask my ex-roommates or my sister who I'm sure will be glad to give you their View on the matter. Because of that very fact I prefer to touch your chords of sympathy first. .After all, I feel the nightmare, while they only see it doing its dirty work on me. I feel it in its horribleness! Strange that each one presents the same situation, smothering! Sinothering in varied and numerous ways, ridiculous perhaps, but very much a reality to the sufferer. The feeling of security disappears: a sense of smothering pervades the whole atmosphere. Some intangible force seems to rob me of that life giving airg it press- es on me harder, harder. I scream agalin and again: louder and louder. The screams end in wracking sobs. I fight for my life, trying desperately to reach a window. Then I awake .partially to find myself pulling and tugging at a closet curtain, mistaken for a window, or on the floor thinking I was under the bed with a suit- case placed so that I couldn't get out. Always there is that feeling of something over my head shutting out life. 'Perhaps I am in the cabin of an airplane unable to get out. Ridiculous? Yes, but very real. dealing sledgehammer blows right and left, much to my sister's discomfort. Then half-awake, I cry quietly, apolo- gizing to my roommate for disturbing her sleep-remember just half-awake. At last all is well until the next night. If any psychology students or professors read this please straighten this situation out. Tell me why these night mares persist in caus- ing one thing-smothering and what ls their cause. I do not know, and my dear readers, it is most probable you do not either. Gloria I-Iartt, '42 On Relatives How boring life can be to the teen age! The time of youth when the mind is turn- ed to style, the keeping of that slim figure, and the thoughts of that last date. The long awaited for afternoon when the family along with your kid sister has gone out, has come. This is a splendid time to reminisce and also to concentrate on writing that letter addressed to Camp Dix. You are just seated comfortable with your heart plunged full into this non-laborous task when the door bell rings. Perhaps it is that new boy whom you met last night, and quickly you rush to 'the door. But Alas! The company is quite -different from what you expected. It is Grandmother, Aunt Lucy, an old maid at that, and of course one of those pesky cousins of yours. Grandmother has been living in the country and has come to visit for a few days. After a shower of kisses and How are you, dear? , What are you doing? , and God bless you, child , you bring them into the parlor. Here the fun or should I say torture begins. Aunt Lucy espies the picture of your latest on the piano. Grammie gasps as she sees that it is a uniform. Don't tell me you're taking up with a soldier! she exclaims. I'll have to talk to your mother about this. Why, it's a disgrace to my family! Then she goes on telling about this and that type of boy and not to trust any of them until I begin to wonder how she ever became so low and disgraceful as to get married herself. About this time Julie, your cousin, comes across some snapshots of you and Tommy. Oh look, Aunt Lucy! cries Julie. They are almost kissing in this one. You scream and rush for the picture only to get crit- icized for that wild temper. More than ever Grandmother is determined to have a talk with your parents. The next thing that these old-timers no- tice is your beautlful figure. Grammie says, Why, child dear, what have they been feeding you? You're as thin as a rail. Then you explain to her that is is the style and that all girls aim for a slender form. She speaks of the size they used to be and how nice the neighboring girl looks. whose one hundred and forty pounds make you shudder. All winter you have been growing your hair to the length with which you are so time out from cut off two or never received your life! have you come pleased. Aunt Lucy, taking her snooping, tells you to three yards. Oh, you have such an overhauling in all Aunt Lucy would like to over tomorrow evening. She has learned a new stitch in crocheting and would like to teach it to you. Nevertheless, you sim- ply have to refuse because you have adate to go bowling. Bowling! cries Grammie. Oh, oh! What's this generation coming to? After about half an hour more of antagonism. your people finally come. This is certainly a relief. Relatives! Relatives! How can their criticism and sarcasm ever be avoided! They disapprove of everything you do. They have a million questions to ask con- cerning your boy friend. Silk hose in the winter is vanity. I could go on with the list. but probably most of you have had similar experiences. Therefore I present a problem for the scientists to solve -- How can our old- fashioned relatives be educated to this modern world? Glenna Newman '42

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ars a year , a convertible coupe, a little girl, and twin boys. He believes it is true love. When he visions his marriage, the orchestra is playing Here Comes the Bride as they solemnly walk down the aisle. But halfway down the aisle, the orchestra beats out the Tiger Rag. He smiles to himself, little knowing that he shall never marry this girl. When the wedding march turns into jazz, nine times out of ten no marriage ensues. This age is from nineteen to twenty five. Thus lightly touching on my theories of love, I end this. The L is for lamentable as it often is: O is for overdone as it is often written and fulfilled, Vis for vi- cious as we learn after we've left'the altar far behindg E is for everywhere because a fool is born every minute. This is my toast!! James Hayes, '42 Two Seconds to Play Come on Bud, shouted Joe Wyman as the whistle opened App1eton's basketball game. Joe, third string center, was as happy as the dark-haired boy leaping for the ball. He, a senior, had earned the right to sit on the bench and to cheer for Bud Coburn, sophomore sensation. He had made the team. Come on, Bud, muttered Joe Wyman tightly as Appleton, trailing by one point, made a desperate bid for victory. For three years he had watched from the bench as his team mates fought for victory and honor. Tonight he would take off his spot- less suit for the last time. This was the last game. Even as he spoke, Bud seized a rebound. pivoted beautifully, and dribbled down the floor. As he leaped to shoot, the opposing guard collided with him in mid air. Block- ing, two shots, shouted the referee, but Bud lay on the floor, his face twisted in pain. Coach Lewis looked at the bench, his face a mask of disappointment. Influenza A Ride on As I hurried down the steps of the sub- way entrance, I noticed with a start that my train was already in the station. I fumbled in my pocketbook. -for a dime while the crowd jostled and pushed about me. Finally I found the money and with the skill of a person accustomed to huge crowds, I wormed my way to the turn- stiles. Just as I was about to push in the coin, I was rudely pushed aside and a small boy hurried through in my place. Re- covering my balance, I Went thI'01lgh lust in time to see the doors of the train start- ing to close. With a burst of speed which I hadn't thought possible, I dashed for the train, and by a miracle, managed to squeeze between the doors. Quickly I glanced over the train. Alas, all the seats were full! With a sigh, I grabbed a strap and braced myself against the lurch and sway of the train. had robbed him of all his subs except third stringers. Okay, Wyman, make 'em good, he said quietly. Joe's mind raced madly as he mechanically took off his jacket. Three years on the bench, and now a chance to win the game was his. Three long years of drudgery and now he was going to play. Two seconds to playg ball's dead on the first one, droned the referee. Joe, carefully adjusting his feet, scarcely heard him. I'm playing: I'm playing, I'm playing, he said to himself. Slowly the ball dipped: swiftly it rose, hit the rim, and rolled off. He had missed! He would at least tie the game. Again the ball dipped: again it rose, hit the rim, and rolled off. The whistle shrilled and the game was over. Three years of practice for two seconds of action, and he had missed. He had failed. Carefully avoiding his sweating team mates, he walked to the locker room, his hair still neatly combed. Jean Pressley, '42 a. Subway At the first stop, I hurried to a seat which had just been emptied. I sank wearily into the seat for it had been a hard day at the office and I was very tired. Finally I aroused myself from my thoughts and looked at the people around rne. Even though I had ridden in subways for years, the people always appeared interesting to me. So many things were portrayed in their faces. Some appear happy and looked as though they enjoyed life immensely. Others seemed very de- jected and as though they had lost their last friend. Oh, Well, such is life! As the train stopped suddenly with a hissing of brakes, I realized that it was my station. In the milling crowd again, I stepped off the train and made my way to the street. Jean Titcomb '43