Rogers Hall School - Splinters Yearbook (Lowell, MA)

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THE BLACK IMAGE Smoke from the chimney swirls In dark, black, ominous clouds, Silhouetting on the sky a reminder That man's toil has been repaid. To the executive: These swirls of smoke, Symbolizing material things, - Clothes, furniture, automobiles, - Have only tangible significance. To the housewife: These black clouds, Recalling to mind the sorrow That makes her life uncertain, Are omens of evil in the world. To the youngster: These puffs of smoke, Signifying that an immense factory Is filled with workers and produce, Mean that great work is in operation. To the factory-worker: These clouds of smoke, Signifying the sweat and toil Necessary for making the produce, Are his life and his all. LINDA WOLF. '61 gw

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THE AW AKENING He was asleep. It was no ordinary sleep, relieving, relaxed, induced by instinct, but rather like a repose of death. Sleep passes through stages of depth until upon reaching the final black abyss it remains undisturbed and unpenctrated by visions and dreams. A regenerating, inactive state, yet his had passed from inactivity to oblivion and because he was my son, my heart was troubled, my mind worried. This suspension of m-ind was unnatural for one usually so active, so alert. Even in sleep he usually thrashed about, disarranging his covers as well as his body so that his arms became wrapped around his head and his feet placed in the most awkward positions. Now as I looked down upon his little bed, I scrutinized the occupant, taking in the blackness of his hair against the white pillow, the relaxed contours of his mouth and the little white hands folded one over the other on the blanket. How like his father. God had given me the exact replica of my love to salve my soul and fill my heart when he took my life's breath away so cruelly. As I now surveyed my son I was frightened, for his sleep was one of complete unconciousness, dormant, quiescent. For hours I sat beside him watching every breath until at the dawn his hands moved, his lids slid open and brown eyes stared at me at first unrec- ognizing but then lighting with love, for here was his security. My son had returned from that frightening stupor of unconscious sleep and my soul was quieted. ' DIANE ROWELL, '60 CONTRASTS Before me stood a castle A towering Fabric Of Stone. Gigantic Solid. I W A masterpiece of beauty In Its Day. But now Cold Ever so Cold. A mark of the past Signifying nothing To Our y Generation. NANCY NEVIUS, '61

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HATE Hate is an overworked word in our day and age. There are people who hate everything, people who hate moderately, and those who claim they don't hate anything. VVhen a person uses this word flippantly or casu- ally, he is usually unaware of the deep meaning these four letters have be- hind them, and will always have behind them. A few years ago I claimed I hated everybody and everything, making life miserable and unhappy for everyone who lived around me and my bitter shell. Nothing seemed to go right, as a result of my selfish attitude, which had started the surge of meaningless hate. At long last I was awakened from this fate of hating things, by a very dear and wise person, a Commander. I talked with him for hours on this destructive subject and learned what hate really was. During the war with Germany this manis brother had been put in a concentration camp, and was, of course, badly treated. A feeling against Hitler and his Nazi government grew so intense that he felt he had the power to stamp across the ocean and tear Hitler and his army apart with bare hands. This he told me was the feeling of real hate, something no one should ever experience, for if he does, the event will always be remem- bered with a vividness one would not desire. He related this example of hate to another. XVhile saying good-night to his small son he had denied him some toyg consequently, his son looked up and said, I hate you. Naturally the Commander knew his son did not realize what he was saying, nevertheless, that word had seared across his heart like a knife. It was then that I became aware of how my attitude must have affect- ed the people around me. An awareness that once discovered, I did not like. Tearing down the shell and taking a bright view of life isn't an easy job, but the more you thing about the true meaning of hate, the more you want to encounter the word love. You look around and see other people in that obscure pit you have finally crawled out of, and that simple, small, yet so meaningful word goes spinning around in your head to such a de- gree you never want to see or hear it again. However odd it may seem, hate is sometimes closely related to the word love. You may love someone dearly, and yet hate him at the same time. Love in this case is usually deep and lasting, but the people involved do not want to realize this, therefore, they dig out each otherfs faults so in- tensely that they claim they have sufficient reasons to hate. In other words hate and love are two members of a constant and vicious circle. As long as life continues 'hate' will exist, equipped with its poisoning claws, ready to sting all in some shape, manner, or form. , ELISA SLEEPER, '60