Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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12 THE CHIMES No. I think a 34 would do, if you don ' t mind. ' Naw, a 34 ' s too smaH, you need a 36 at least. Here ' s some pretty ones. They ' d look real classy on you. No, I don ' t seem to care for any of those. Have you any others? Nope, that ' s all we got. You paw wistfully through the rainbow-colored heap on the counter. Finally you notice a purple one, way at the bottom, with puff sleeves and darling buttons; and right away you just know that you ' ve got to have it. A glance at your watch tells you that you ' ve only time to get your train; so you grab up the sweater, give the astonished salesgirl a bill, and dash off, hugging the purple sweater to your bosom, satisfied. It is only after you get home that you notice that the sweater is purple instead of green, that it is a size too big, and that purple doesn ' t look good on you, anyway. OPINIONS Madeleine Bailey, ' 37 I hate war, whispered Mr. Brent to his daughter Pat, This was the last sentence he spoke as the train drew away from the platform. He was a brave man, but, like so many other brave men in 1917, he couldn ' t see any reason for the horrible slaughter that was involving the whole world. I hate war, whispered Bill Lewis to Pat the last time she was with him before he too went over. But Pat didn ' t hate war! She thought it was different and patriotic. She loved the uniforms of the men, and the millions of flags made her tin- gle all over with love of country. She gayly displayed her soldier ' s knitting (as she called it) and she orated fluently on the glory of war. She boasted of her father ' s and her fiance ' s being with one of the first regiments, and she composed poetry by the reams about the brave men who were fighting. She held parties for the young men who at any time expected to be called to duty. All over her city people were saying, Let ' s go to Pat Brent ' s tonight. She ' s one of the grandest women of today with her vitality and true patriotism. I hate war, whispered Pat as she stood one night at her window. Her hands were clenched, and her breath came in little gasps. On the floor was a white piece of paper on which was written, We regret to inform you that Lieutenant William J. Lewis died in action December 7. Bill!

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THE CHIMES 11 I got this job, about as low as you can get, being your own boss, on one of these scows. He spit again. What a story! You ' ve certainly seen a lot in your day, Mr. Cava- naugh. Yep, I can say I ' ve seen quite a bit, have been everywhere from New York to Hong Kong. And tomorrow I sail to Boston in this tub. The mosquitoes were getting pretty bad and affected all of us but Mr. Cavanaugh, whose tough skin they couldn ' t possibly pierce. There was another long silence. This was interrupted by Mother ' s Well, Don, we really have to go. It ' s been terribly nice talking with you, Mr. Cavanaugh. I ' ll bring down a pie or cake for you tomorrow, and some apples for the rest of the bargemen. Good-by. Good-by, sir. Good-by. As we walked away, his eyes followed us with a longing, desperate look as if he had parted with the best friends on earth. He gave his limp pants a pull. A slight ray of hope swept across his face. Perhaps I can talk with ' em some more tomorrow when they bring down the pie. SHOPPING Mary Schafer, ' 37 Most women experience difficulty when they go shopping. Their trouble seems, as far as I can discover, to result from two main causes: namely, the vagaries of the feminine mind, and the displays put on by department stores. The common fault of most stores seems to be that they have too many articles on display; they dazzle the eye of the shopper, and distract her attention from her shopping list. I will give you a n instance of wihat I mean. You enter a large clothing shop, fully determined to buy a green sweater, and search for the woolens department. Finally your eye lights on the display of sweaters on a counter in the corner. There are sweaters- — dozens of them — red, blue, yellow, brown, white, purple — every hue of the rainbow; but green, strangely enough, seems to be missing from the color scheme. You vaguely paw through the mass, in a vain effort to locate a few gjreen ones, and spend a second or two wondering what in the world has happened to the girl in charge of the table. Suddenly a voice at your elbow says, insolently, Help ya, miss? and there is the delinquent salesgirl. In a timid voice, you ask for some green sweaters. Disdainfully the girl shifts her gum and hauls two or three boxes from beneath the counter, What style— slip-on? Yes, if you don ' t mind, awed by her scornful competence. What size? 36?

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THE CHIMES 13 Wild thoughts whizzed around in Pat ' s head, and she muttered in- coherently. She thought of the wives who were husbandless now. She re- membered how she had cheered her girl friends when news of their loved ones had come — how she had cheerfully talked to them, saying that the men had died for their country and homes. Now she saw everything differ- ently. These men would never be seen again ! Bill was gone forever. That frightful white piece of paper was the end. She didn ' t want to live in this cruel, quarreling world. The one-time beautiful and patriotic thing called war was now a horrible, sanguinary thing that robbed life, love and home! Dad was back! The same old dad. He was a colonel now and had a line of shining medals on his uniform. A year ago Pat would have been ah! so proud of those medals, but now — each one sent a sword straight through her heart. She knew those ornaments were given to Brent for brave deeds he had done. Pat wondered if perhaps one of the enemy had received a shining medal for fighting in the great war — for killing — Bill ! She knew that her father wasn ' t proud of his medals. He too hated the avarice and greed of the men who started the wars. That night together as two patriots of America, Colonel and Pat Brent stood, and Pat said, Oh, Daddy dear, I ' ve been such a little fool. I ' m so ashamed to think I could ever have said that war was patriotic. It ' s not! I hope I may always fight for friendship and peace between people and all nations. Do you think I can do anything about peace. Daddy? Mr. Brent smiled, for he saw his daughter glorious in her enthusiasm and determination to see a new calm world, and he visualized her as always striving to bring about love between nations. JUSTICE— WELL? Theodore Vinal, ' 38 The vivid, blood-red sky seemed to splutter as night closed in quickly — too quickly. Sergeant Peck, astraddle of his sleek motorcycle on the rearing hilltop, gazed at the sky. He loved to see the twilight blue shadows blanket the sundown for its nocturnal rest. Below him, down the steeply-descending hillside, he heard voices. They seemed nearer than they really were. Their proximity was to be counted in terms of yards rather than feet. His curiosity aroused. Peck listened. One should not consider him an idle eavesdropper, though; for wasn ' t it his business to uncover strange proceedings? Harsh, coarse voices in excited conversation always intrigued Ser- geant Peck. Leaving his potential Juggernaut, he slyly crept down the hill,