Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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THE CHIMES 21 ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT Doris Overland, ' 34 Silver moonbeams were streaming througli the trees, those tall, lovely poplar trees that stood fir.nly silhouetted against the night sky, and hid in their shadows little sylvan g lens where queer things happen. The wind was hhjwing ' gently, oh, so gently. It swayed the poplars arid Idew across the hills, making the long fragrant grass rise and fall like the weaves of a billowy ocean. It whistled through the branches of the stern oaks and managed to shake the aus- tere elms slightly. A gay weird spirit captured the night. I felt H a ' I sat there on a rock watching multitudes of stars twinkle. I glanced at the poplars. They seemed to be smiling. Faint strains of music — oh, ever so faint — were carried on the breeze. Adiat was the matter with me? I saw, yes, I saw tiny figures on the grass. I was just wondering whether to blame Virgil or Hamlet for this when a much taller figure jumped out from behind the trees. Unlike the spirits with their dainty little wings and funny antlers, the figure looked quite human. Youth, I thought, trying to ignore the fantastic ])ranc- ing of the sprites, you are quite crazy to be out on a cold night with only a silly silk blouse and cap with pompons and velvet trousers on. ' ' The fairies began to dance more quickly. The strains of music grew louder. Then wonders upon wonders this wraith of a human began to sing, marvelously, tetiderly. Youth, I said, unable to think that he might not be a youth, perhaps beginning to believe that I was having hal- lucinations, someone could make a Caruso out of you. Come before you catch your death of cold. Come! ' ' But the playful breeze carried my voice away. I gasped in surprise, for a young maiden was running across the hills. The rash youth was following her. She, foolish thing, was clad like him. The great pompons on their clothes bobbed in the wind that whistled after them. She turned, and I saw that her face was ridiculous. She had

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20 THE CHIMES halt into the deadwater immediately at the hack of the l)eaver-(Lam. As he gives vent to a yawn and attempts to rul) the sleepiness from his half-closed eyes, a sharp tug hrings him to his senses and he curses his foolishness at not heino- ready for the first 1)ite. His desire for a nap is then disj elled for good as he makes up his mind to get the next one, pnd he quietly and determinedly settles down to catch all the hig ones in the stream. The afternoon passes swiftly in this land of any sports- man ' s paradise and he moves more swiftly from pool to pool as the sun moves westward on its never ceasing ' course. He has left the deadwater far hehind and with his hasket half full moves swiftlv down the stream, stopping only at the hest pools to try his luck. After glancing dou]:)tfully from the sun to the stream, he decides with sad resignation that he must remove his hook and hit the ' ' long, long trail. Homeward he trudges, his hasket heavy, his throat dry, l)ut when he thinks of the speckled heauties ' ' inside, the hasket seems surprisingly light and not at all hurdeusome. Homeward he trudges, with leaden feet but a light and joyous heart. He remembers how that big one tug-ged, and the rough and stony trail becomes shorter and smooth- er as he reflects on the many pleasures that day has held for him. The sun is disappearing below the horizon as he finally reaches camp. He is tired but happy. He has spent a day that might be justly classified as perfect, and the tired grin on his smeared and dirty face by no means belies his pleas- ure and satisfaction. A fishing trip such as this always holds something new in store, and the thrills and pleasures of the wilds are more and more appreciated by either novice or ' ' old timer as he learns of the great out doors. Our angler now is at his journey ' s end — at camp, his temporary home — and there we leave him, thoughfully gaz- ing into the glowing embers of his dying campfire. Alex: Say, why do snow flakes dance? Smart : Practicing for the snowball, I guess.

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22 THE CHIMES a saiicv i)i(|iiaiit month, lar e g-reen eyes, and riotons red hair. Come 1)ack ! T cried feebly. ' ' Come ])ack, yon fool with the marvelons voice. Confonnd this cold wind, I mnt- tered shivering. Did T hear high sc[neaky langhs? Were the elves grin- ning? Were the poplars shaking angrily? Was the moon leering? I felt as though all were looking at me. Did somebodv or something say this? — Mortal, mortal, mortal, thieving mortal! You steal our glorious night. You sit there and see things you should not see, and, ho, if you don ' t call after the immortal Pierrot to tell him that someone can make a ' Caruso ' out of him. Ho ! Ho ! You call your graceful Pierrette a fool. You shiver when Pierrot chases her up to the moon! You swear by ' Virgil ' and ' Hamlet, ' whover they are, that you are crazy. Get hence, unappreciative, practical, egotistical, boasting mortal. I was cold. The sky was growing cloudy. I was hun- gry and sleepy. The moon had disappeared. One lone star twinkled sorrowfully. The wind blew hard. I was sure it was all a dream. ' ' Virgil lay open on my desk at home. Hamlet, thank heaven, was finished. I began to think I had a pret- ty good imagination. Perhaps I could follow in the foot- step ' s of even Shakespeare; bu t as I turned before entering the house, I saw that the tremulous clouds had parted, and the sullen moon was glaring at me. SCITUATE HIGH Alberta Turner, ' 34 Scituate High is loved most dear By all her boys and girls Toward her our hearts are most sincere To her our flag unfurls. Her banner bright of blue and white Is always flung on high To her we cling with all our might Till parting time is night.