Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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THE CHIMES 15 THE LOG JAM A lazy shiftless good-for-nothing — that is what the tru- ant master, Deacon Brown, had said while calling on his father last evening. Well, he had played truant, he solilo- quized, but he hadn't meant to. The river as usual had called him, and he couldn't resist its wild appeal. It called him today, more loudly, more persistently than it did yesterday; and his willing feet were even now carrying him directly toward it and away from school. What did Deacon Brown or his father, for that matter, know of this wild urge within him to follow, follow, the siren call of the river ; to yield himself to its racing tide and float with it under sun and moon, far, far away, into the great world of men, or across the wide ocean at its mouth to savage isles or strange golden strands; or even to stand man to man and fight the angry seas. Today the ice was breaking up; and the great cakes, sparkling and glistening in the sun, sailed away like fabled argosies on some great adventure. In the distance could be heard the crash and boom of logs released from their winter sleep in the ice far to the north ; booming and rollicking, turn- ing first one slippery side to the sun and then rolling over in wild abandon seemingly of joy, they raced toward the arches of the old bridge, upon which stood John. Here around the masonry of the bridge strong platforms of cement and stone had been so placed that a man could stand upon them, and with a good strong pike or bar fend off the racing logs from the supports of the bridge and steer them through the openings. On, on, came the logs, leaping into the air, twisting, boom- ing like sea monsters, John thought, and he thrilled with joy at the mad, wild flight of them toward the sea. But what was that wild cry of fear? It was a man fleeing from death as he climbed up beside John, his pike in his hand, and his face blanched, as he looked down UDon the SDot he had deserted and beheld a tangled mountain of lo gs piled high. A jam was ahead, and a bad one, at the weakest spot on the bridge, its very center. It must be broken at once or the bridge would go down. John looked back at the miles of water full of racing logs, and at the men who, aware of the almost certain death com- ing to the man brave enough to carry the dynamite down to the bottom of that nest of logs and blow up the log that con- trolled the jam, would not volunteer. Lazy, shiftless, good-for-nothing — they had said of him — surely he was the one to be spared. This was why his feet had led him to this spot perhaps. He grasped the sticks of dynamite before the men were aware of his presence or pur- pose, and descended the iron rods of the ladder riveted to the masonry. The roar of the logs, still piling up or crashing by,

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14 THE CHIMES sticks, flourished over the heads of the beseiged, bewildered the wolves. The dogs were soon lost control of, and with angry snarls they surged into the pack, all but faithful Mitzi. The rest of the wolves, not occupied with fighting the dogs, were pushing forward almost tasting the blood and flesh of the humans. With madness several at a time would dash forward, only to be repulsed by the fires and flaming brands. The woods, to the beseiged, seemed an ocean of gleaming teeth and fiery eyes. They grabbed and tore the fur rugs to shreds. Defeat and death seemed near. And then sudd enly Jose remembered his automatic. In the frenzy of the barricading and starting fires, he had for- gotten his means of defence — firearms. He fired into the surging, angry pack. The flash and report frightened and terrified them. For a moment and only a moment, they stood as if frozen in their tracks. Then they turned; and with a last snarl and howl fled into the darkness of the woods. The moon made a white path over the hills and lighted the woods. On the ground lay frozen bodies of dead wolves. But the night was serene, and from the distance came the howl of the still hungry, hunting pack. Katrine Schuyler, '27. NIGHT A cricket's tune, 'Neath a silver moon, A soft wind's sigh, A starlit sky, A flicker bright Of a firefly's light — And this is night. Helen Healy, '26. THE STORM KING The Storm King comes in his chariot of white With his wintry winds and snows. He whistles and shrieks like The war of the bands That come from the depths below. The Storm King is a man of great age With his hoary locks so pure; To watch him as he soars through the sky Will remind you of mythical days of yore. The Storm King is a man of great strength He destroys things that come in his path Like a reaper of Death, he does not select But takes them as they pass. L. Panetta, '26

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16 THE CHIMES filled his ears. Here and there a small opening between the logs permitted h 'm to climb down, down, ever down until he reached the very lowest log and lighted his fuse. He placed the explosive as far out from the bridge as possible in the very heart of the jam. Diving as deep y as he could into the icy water, he swam away as fast as his numbed limb - wouM carry him. With a terrific explosion the jam was lifted far up into the air. And up, far above the bridge amid logs ard ice, a boy flew as if on wings, a bravely smiling boy, still smil- ing when they tenderly lifted his mangled body from the cruel waters. He had at last started out on the greatest ad- venture of all, and if you should travel to that little northern town today you would ee a bronze tablet on the bridge, com - memorating his brave deed, — and never a wo' d of th- ''shift- less good-for-nothing. Hazel G. Eaton, '26. LIFE'S PATHWAY Standing tonight at my window, Gazing out over the sea, I wonder what Life's Pathway Holds in store for me. If the Angel of Death should call me, My dreams will fade with the n ght. And tomorrow I'll be with my Creator, In the land of the Holy Light. If the summons I could not answer, And if I should live on for years, I wonder if God's Pathway, Will hold for me sorrows and tears. Perhaps a silver lining, May appear through clouds of grey, And who knows what happiness, May come to me some day. Claire McDermott, '26. DAWN Water lapping on the shore. Far in the east a faint, faint light The light grows stronger, and across The wave-capped water Comes the first light of dawn. Before this ever-growing light The shore is transformed; Then, above the horizon, Appear the first rays of the morning sun. Night is gone, dawn has come Bringing with it sunshine and joy. Wherity, '26.