Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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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.

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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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THE CHIMES 17 THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT Let us imagine we are taking a December walk. We shall ask a few people that we meet how they expect to celebrate Christmas. We see a young lady approaching, clad in furs and dressed in the latest style. Her name is Miss Selfishness. We ask her how she plans to celebrate Christmas. She answers, '0h, I am having an awful time trying to buy pretty presents for my friends and to spend very little money. I have loads of friends that will give me just lovely presents, and I must give them something in return, but I must save money enough to bi7y a new set of furs that will cost $200.00. The next person we meet is Greedy. He is dressed in nice clothes, but they are rather soiled. Let us ask him what he plans to do for Christmas. He replies joyfully, Oh boy, I am going to have turkey, potatoes, celery, cranberry sauce, turnip, squash, and after that all the candy and nuts I want. Now isn't that a good way to celebrate Christmas! Here comes old Mr. Grouch down the street. How are you planning to celebrate the Holiday, Mr. Grouch? we ask. Holiday, what holiday? The world never did me any good. I shan't pay it back with presents. Let us pass on. He is too much like his name. The next man we meet is plodding along rather dreamily as though he is thinking of something very important. What can it be? His name is Mr. Moneymad. In answer to our question of how he is expecting to celebrate Christmas, he answers, Don't bother me. I am too busy thinking of how to support my family. Christmas means nothing to me exceDt that I can't work and so I shall lose one day's pay. The next peoDle we meet are two little children, the boy carrying a small box in his hand and acting as though it were the mo t precious thing in the world. Perhaps it is. Let us ask them. They answer our question happily, Oh, w have just been to the village and bought Mama a lovely bottle of perfume, and it cost ten cents. We have been sav- ing up for a long time. The Christmas spirit of these little children reminds me of the following: The real Christmas spirit is not seen of men, nor is it found by searching the thronging highways. It abides in the heart, and many there are who never have its presence. The true Christmas spirit is love, a love that makes you wish you were to see others as well as yourself happy and merry on Christmas Day, a love that makes you willing to share with others some of your own joy and gifts, a love that makes you unselfish and makes you feel it is more blessed to give than to receive. Nellie Mitchell, '29. SCITUATE. mss.