Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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16 Mondax morning Tim went to school with a light heart. Everyone had to read his story and when Tim started to read his, the teacher seemed surprised and was about to say something, hut she didn ' t. That night Tim s aunt came over and had quite a talk with his father in privacy. Timothy was about to go out-doors when his father asked him to come into the library. Now wliat do )ou suppose he wants? thougiit Timoth) with a choke as he entered the room. Timothv. ' said his father ' s stern voice, ' did ou happen to find an interesting story in the attic Saturday afternoon which was so good that you went so far as to copy it word for word and pass it in for a mark at school today? Oh my gosh, thought Tim, if he knows. 1 might as well tell him. Aloud he said, Y-yes, but how did she find out? ' ' Do )(m think that was exacth right? N-no. sir. l)ut how do ( u know, auntie? Well, Timothy. replied his aunt, I might never ha e known except that when I was a girl in high school. I happened to write it. Jumpin Juniper, wouldn ' t you know it. wit ' i your own aunt for a teacher! Of all the luck! Prize Winning Essay DON ' T MOVE! CLICK! Helen Poland, ' 40 |i-tjX ji|E are all more or less familiar with the intriguing business of having our pho- ll f I tographs taken. The coming of the photographer to take the seniors ' grad- k uation pictures at school is an event i long anticipated and long remembered. On the appointed day the girls appear with their hair in soft lustrous waves or perhaps with it pasted into ringlets from a too-recent hair set. The bovs are decked out in their Sunday best, never seen in school except on this date and per- haps the first day. Those who have always be- fore seemed rather plain somehow manage to be beautiful for a day. It ' s a pity we don ' t have our pictures taken more often ! The teachers are most disconcerted by the ab- solute lack of concentration on anything so trifling as studies. Everyone watches his ap- pointment come nearer with each tick of the clock and wonders which of the expressions he tried out in front of the mirror last night would look the best. At last my time comes. I approach my doom with something of anxiety. The sight of the many and varied lights and machines and instruments is, to say the least, intriguing, and just a bit terrifying. The sickish smirk of the girl having her picture taken before me doesn ' t help much. Finally the photographer is ready. I am led in among the maze of instruments and placed in a tiny chair. He surveys me from all sides with a critical air and then proceeds to get me into the right position. Put your chin forward and your chest back, he demands. He insists upon this until I begin to feel like a giraffe, meanwhile assuring me that this is how the movie stars have theirs taken. It can make a homelv girl look beautiful. he adds, which is verv comforting. Now, don ' t move! Don ' t move! Shut! This seems to be the signal for his helper to do something very important for he savs it as if it were. Ready! Aim! Fire! Now. for some reason or other photographers work with all their might and main to achieve a grin on their subject ' s face. To this end they resort to all sorts of supposedly-funny jokes and puns which they have obvioush used since thev started in the business. Somehow these don ' t affect me as they are intended to. On the con- trary, they make me determined to be grim just for spite. He tries these tactics unsuccessful!} ' for a while, winning only one teeth-showing for his efforts. In desperation, he murmurs, You must put your soul in it ! Although not meant to be funnv, this achieves the desired effect. After repeating these maneuvers innumerable times, he announces that that will be all, assur- ing me that mv pictures will be fine in spite of everything. Did I sav it is a pity we don ' t have our pic- tures taken more often? I take it all back — it is a blessing from Heaven! I

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15 Prize Winning Story A SHORT STORY Abbie Barnes, ' 42 Rain, rain, go aivay. Come again on a school day IMOTHY TUCKER was desperately chewing what was left of the end of a pencil. Of course, if it hadn ' t started raining at three o ' clock in the morning, he could have been playing in that final baseball game instead of racking his brains trying to write a short story. Ordinarily a short story wouldn ' t bother him because his mother wouldn ' t know he had to do it. The usual procedure was that he would write it at his leisure and offer excuses to the teacher until it was done. But this time the teacher would be his aunt and accordingly, dear Auntie would tell Mother all about Timothy ' s wonderful school work. Thus he was under the watchful eye of his maternal parent that rainy Saturday afternoon. Timothy, came his mother ' s voice from the living-room, come here a minute, please. Now what, thought the boy, going to see what she wanted. He had been interrupted only about ten times that afternoon. What do you want? he asked. Would you go and get the card table set up, please? All right, he answered, discouraged at everything in general. When he came back, he sat down, wrote a few words, drew pictures all over the paper and finally threw it away. Darn the luck, he thought, as he doodled with his pencil. Why does a guy like me have to get stuck with an aunt for a teacher? Dog- gone! It ' s bad enough to have any teachers at all, without making matters worse by having your own aunt. Course, you wouldn ' t mind so much if it were someone else ' s aunt. Gee! I s ' pose the rest of the fellers haven ' t anything to think about except how to get on the best side of their parents just about warning card time. Anyhow, being my own aunt, she ought to know about how I ' d write without going to all this bother. Oh, oh, guess I better sharpen my pencil. If I keep — . Timothy. If 1 keep on sharpening my pencil, he thought, unheedful of Mrs. Tucker ' s voice, why, she ' ll think I ' m trying awfully hard. Wonder what the boys are doing! Timothy Tucker, came the sharp voice, you come here this minute. Do you hear me? Yes ' ni, I ' m coming, answered Tim. For heaven ' s sake, how do you think a person can write a story, if you ' re going to keep interrupt- ing him? Now what do you want? I ' m sorry I keep interrupting you; I ' ll try not to anymore. The girls are coming over to play bridge this afternoon, so why don ' t you go up to your room where you can concentrate better? Guess I ' ll have to, with you women playing bridge. While you ' re about it, will you take these magazines up in the attic for me? Uh, huh. Timothy went up in his room, and after a bad case of restlessness, threw his pencil down, ripped up the paper, and tried to think of some- thing pleasant to do. The rain was still coming down in torrents, more bad luck. Oh phooey! he exclaimed. I ' m not going to bother with any old story for anyone. Oh my gosh! he said after a few minutes ' silence, the magazines. He went up to the attic, deposited the maga- zines, and began rummaging around the trunks among the old things that people like fo save. All was quiet up in the attic until fifteen min- utes before dinner. Then Mrs. Tucker heard a pair of feet hustle down to the second floor and hustle back again. Just before they were ready to eat, Timothy came triumphantly and noisily down stairs. Here, Mother, read that, and if it isn ' t any good, I ' m not going to write another one. Whew! What a job! Well, she said, after she had read it. I thought you could write something if you ' d just get your mind off baseball and football for a change.

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17 Prize Winning Poem A SAIL WITH A LOBSTERMAN By James Welch, ' 41 Out from Scituate Harbor, Past the lighthouse tall and grim We head her nose for the open sea, For a sail with Skipper Jim. We pull the pots under Third Cliff, As the white-toothed combers break; And a high line haul as we shift, Ten bobbin ' buoys in our wake. Full speed ahead to Shaugnissy ' s ledge. As a lubber to starboard clings; While white mists veil a peaceful shore And the skipper a chanty sings. It ' s a heave and pitch to port, Sir, Where the bubbles break to foam; To a tearing wind from the open sea, The captain heads her home. Oh, you may have logged the briny, From old Spain to Yucatan; Avast me hearty, you ' re a lubber until You ' ve shipped with a lobsterman. ALWAYS FIGHTING Gordon Page, ' 43 Dogs, cats, lions, elephants, humans, and all forms of living animals fight. You walk down the road and see a large dog forcing a small one back by sheer size and strength. Most people think little of this; but, after all, isn ' t that ex- actly what is happening to the weaker nations to-day? There are many revolutions in the world. These are similar to family quarrels. Each group thinks it ' s abused or that it needs more power, and so people kill one another. A dog fight can be stopped by water, but war stops at nothing. Men are killed by thousands, and people won- der if the world will ever be ruled by peace. This is a question which concerns everyone, for if each person in a country could be educated into believing war is wrong, the world would be like one big, happy family. First, like a young boy, the world has got to take its spankings and learn from experience. If everyone, in the meantime, would take to heart the saying from the Bible: Thou shalt not kill, the world would become a happier place in which to live. Until this point is reached, fighting, killing, and m.ourning will march on. THE SWING CRAZY ERA Jeanne Heudricksou, ' 40 The present day has been called the Swing Crazy Era because of the great popularity of this type of music. There are few places fre- quented that one doesn ' t hear the shrieking mes- sage of the saxophone. At this moment, swing seems to be rather a fixed feature, but where will it be one hundred years from now? We wonder! Perhaps it has the rhythm that makes our feet tap, but it lacks the depth and the beauty of the old masters. Do the swing melodies survive? Only once in a great while. Usually a new song is made each hour to take the place of another syncopated tune that has passed on. People must at heart really prefer the folk songs, ballads and the classics, to these empty swing songs. We all can hear the true beauty in the melodies of Schubert, Brahms and Schumann; and what is more tantalizingly lovely than the strains from Gounod ' s Faust ? But even on the great master- pieces, swing has been at work. For me, their beauty is spoiled when they are made into swing creations. Music lovers have predicted that this modern form of music can not last, because it has none of the qualities which they associate with the finer types of music. Of course time will show; but I believe that, although at present it is in favor, its popularity can not last long. Although our generation may be very matter-of-fact, qual- ity always counts more than quantity; and the world does recognize true beauty. THE MOON Douglas Willett, ' 41 As the moon rose high in the sky. The trees in the forest wilds Cast lengthy shadows on the ground. Like ghastly figures moving round; While animals searching for food close by Soon left for their hidden homes. Pausing and glancing with delight To look at this strange and beautiful sight. This queenly moon continued its ride Up over the vast and starlit sky, Not halting to rest in the heavens so gay As it pursued its lone but destined way. And floating down through the scattered clouds It calmly bowed to the approaching day.