Ricker Classical Institute - Aquilo Yearbook (Houlton, ME)

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The Aquilo Alike, , The first time I saw it I was amazed at its striking beauty. It lies nestled between two mountains that cast shadows on the outer fringes of it. The center of the lake is beautifully deep blue and on this particular day it reflected the sunlight until it seemed to writhe with fire. At the head of the lake a small stream flows softly and meticulously in and out between huge bleak boulders and blackened tree stumps which contract with the lively atmosphere of the place. At night when the moon climbs solemnly into the sky, the lake be- comes truly a thing of beauty, It becomes a silvery shimmering sea, soft- ly reflecting the light of the moon. ,Golden bubbles rise softly to the sur- face and disintegrate, silvery waves lap softly on the shore, a cool breeze murmurs quietly amongst the trees on the shore and the branches sway softly to an inperceptible rhythm. Up in the hills a dog howls forlornly at the moon, and as I gaze, the moon dips behind a cloud and disappears. Quietness and serenity reign over all. Roger McGary '49 Busher Idol The sun beat down unmercifully on the little group of players out on the diamond, nonchalantly tossing a baseball back and forth, and scooping practice grounders from the dirt, then flipping them unerringly to the tall southpaw who covered first sack. Conspicuous among them, however, was a young fellow out there on the mound, tossing pitches to the batter. His every muscle was tense. His forehead, under the wet dark curls, was creas- ed with worry and foreboding. For he was a newcomer, a busher from the minors, who was pitching his first major league game today. He sensed the unfriendliness of the other men who acted as if they did not trust him. Well, why should they? he thought grimly. Maybe in front of this crowd I'll lose my stuff-fthe stuff which had sent him skyrocketing through the minor leaguesl. He thought of his father and mother, sitting near the radio, almost as tense as he is. Sweat began to form on his wrinkled brow as the pitching arm limbered up. He was tall, about six foot two, twenty-one years, old and answered to the name of Danny Thomas. Here comes the umpire. The game will begin in a few minutes, the most important game of his career. His team, the Cougars, against their old rival, the Rawks. Well, here I am , he thought, as he stood out on the mound preparing to pitch to the first opposing batsman, pitching in a 'big league game as I've dreamed of since a boy. But enough of daydreaming, now to get to work. He used his various assortment of pitches, only this time they had more polish on them, that something which immediately es- tablished him a big league pitcher. The speed which had downed his high school opponents so effectively was given a new lease. He held them hitless for five innings, and then something happened. A sure foul rolled fair before it reached the outfield, then the second base- man missed an easy grounder bringing up the fourth batter for the Hawks. C291 ,

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The Aquilo - We have scarcely started on our way when mischievous little winds seize our hats and send them flying through the air. But the spirits are not content to merely tease us. They are having too much fun to stop at this point. Even the clouds above smile tantalizingly down at us and the trees whisper to one another and wave their bare branches to and fro in ex- citement. As we continue on our way, the winds push us and we fall down on the ice and break an arm or an ankle. These incidents are just coinciden- ces? Certainly they are not, since it is Friday-the-Thirteenth, the answer is obvious. What can be done to remedy this appalling situation? Friday-the- Thirteenth should be forever banished from our calendars. Lena Sloat '49 A Moment of Beauty There are days which occur in this climate, at almost any season of the year, in which the world attains its perfection, when the air, the heav- enly bodies and the earth, make a true harmony. At these times, the feel- ing of harmony seems to color every mortal's attitude, and people every- where go about with tranquil thoughts and love in their hearts. The world is at peace with itself! These rare and unusual days may be looked for with greater assurance in that pure October weather which we distinguish by the name of Indian summer. Time seems endless and unmoving as soft, languid sunshine sleeps over the broad hills and warm, wide fields. To be able to live through these infinite, sunny hours seems ectasy enough. The solitary places, al- ways so restful, are not quite lonely. At the gates of the forest, the surprised man of the world is forced to leave his city estimates of great and small, wise and foolish. Here is majesty which shames our religions, and truth which discredits our knowl- edge. We come out of close and crowded quarters into the sanctuaries of Nature and see what majestic beauties would daily grace our eyes and thoughts if we could but comprehend them. How willingly we would over- come the barriers which render them impotent and remote, and let Nature entrance and comfort us! The shadowed light of the forest is like a perpet- ual dawn in which all things are clean and new and pure. The magical, oft- reported spells of these places creep silently upon us. The spirits of the mysterious, incommunicable trees begin to persuade us to quit our life of solemn trifles and come and live with them, a truer, more meaningful life. Here no history, or church, or state, will be found to spread the pestilence of human fraility and ignorance. So we may walk, arm in arm, for one brief moment with the deep and ageless truth of Nature-and truth is beauty. Gilbert Sewell '48 I 28 l-

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The Aquilo I mustn't fail now , he thought as he toed the rubber to deliver the ball. He threw a slow easy knuckler, but the day was hot, he was nervous, and the ball spun a little more, came a little closer to the middle than he had in- tended. It went out into right field for a triple, giving the Hawks a two to nothing lead. He put the following men down in order but the damage had been done. The Hawk pitcher was having a holiday. He was holding them scoreless. No one had been able to get even a scratch hit, for this was Ace Allen, the veteran speedster of old. The score remained the same until the ninth, when the Cougar first baseman got a scratch single. Sensing a rally, the Cougar manager sent in a reliable pinch-hitter. He came through with a scorching drive through short and second to put a man on first and third. The Hawk pitcher was now thoroughly worried. Danny came up next, though he was a poor hitter, the coach had somehow let him bat. Ace Allen being very nervous, the pitch came down as big as a balloon. He pulled it into deep right for a triple. The crowd roared its enthusiasm, because now the score was tied two up. But alas, the Cougars didn't have a hitter to keep the rally going. The Hawk pitcher, seeing this, regained his com- posure, and once again became the steely, implacable hurler of the first eight innings. With two out, this was the cougars last chance to win the game. The man at bat wasn't going to hit. He knew it, the crowd knew it, and Danny, standing restlessly on third knew it. His mind raced with the speed of light, He took a generous lead from the sack. When the pitcher's arm snapped back, he dug for home, every muscle in his body responding to the urgent call. Out of the corner of his eye, the pitcher saw him, and consequently his throw was slightly wild. This was what Danny had hop- ed for. One thing which he had forgotten to tell the scout who discovered him was that he had set a high school record for track. His big figure hurtled down on the bewildered catcher who had just leaped to snag the wild pitch. He dropped his mitt to the ground, but too late. Executing a beautiful hook slide, Danny had got there a little quicker. The Ump had his hands flat. The game was over, Danny had won his own ball game. He was carried off the field by his now friendly comrades. With joyful heart, he began changing his grimy, sweat-soaked uniform. The future looked very bright indeed. Philip Bubar '50 Night To most people, night merely marks the end of a day. It is a break in the hours of the struggle to live in which you are able to furnish yourself with new and stronger weapons with which to fight the next battle of life. To me, it is a new world, A more beautiful, spiritual world than the one we know. Most people don't even notice the significance of a night when they have the opportunity. At night, everything seems to have a kind of life which we human be- ings have always dreamed of, but can never hope to have. At night, trees assume grotesque shapes of strange beings from the depths of our imagin- ation. You can hear the weird chant of their voices whispering back and forth on the breezes. The breezes are invisible phantoms rushing to and fro over the face of the earth with their ceaseless arguing. There are noisy, blustering C301