Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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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.

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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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THE CHIMES 23 MY FRIEND THE MINUTE NEWT Charles Colman, ' 32 One balmy day late last May, lured to my log ' retreat, I di ' scovered to my great surprise that the borers, beetles and what-not in their bewitching agony of spring ' fever had wrought such vengeance on the chinking of the cabin in their mad rush for the open that they must have forgotten completely to shut the doors to their winter homes. In truth, glowing shafts of life-giving sunlight flooded thru several slits and formed patches of gold on the rough floor. I was not angry with these insects; I was really glad they had filled my cabin with holes. I know how they felt on that glorious day when all the world was waking up and re- birth was everywhere. And I was glad to go down by the bubbling brook to gather the cool moist moss once more to the cheerful tune of the old man in the brook who seemed to bubble out his peace like one bursting over with joy. I lifted the bulky moss basket from its nail and swung it over my shoulder. Then I wound my way to the brook along the path which was shaded by fresh leaves and bord- ered with dainty hairbells and pure white anemones. A tiny grass snake wiggled lazily away. Approaching a more shaded section, I encountered a swarm of pine flies, who lit on my neck and arms in buzz- ing clusters. But there is one thing about the pine flies which I like, and that is that they are very easy to kill. Whether it is because they have a yellow streak down their back or that the warmth of their favorite weather makes them slow to move as it does me, I cannot say. Upon arriving at the top of the hill overlooking the brook, I could hear the old man of the brook mumbling to himself, and in a few minutes I was on the good old bridge. I no- ticed that the cowslips were well gone by anjrl the skunk cabbage was fully knee-high. Just appearing at the surface of the water two fat spatter-dock buds could be seen. Having arrived at the brook and having taken a slight rest, (it was getting uncomfortably warm) I proceeded to gather the moss (the reindeer moss) which grew in large spongy patches on the banks of the brook.