Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

Page 27 text:

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.

Page 26 text:

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

Page 28 text:

18 ®lhSiMe§ Ella Kerr Cornelia Leith, ' 41 LLA KERR was eating her lunch alone on the kitchen tahle, as she had eaten it each day for almost a year. She quietly peeled a hoiled potato and stirred her coffee in its chipped china cup, as if she enjoyed the silence of the empty house. There is no denying that she found the quiet restful after the roar of the vacuum cleaner that had filled her ears all the morning. Ella was often tired nowadays and her regular Saturday morning ' s cleaning had left her exhausted. The mid-day sun shone through the window where her house-plants stood. With weariness she saw that a few dead geranium flowers had fallen upon the worn linoleum. It can wait, she thought, but her inner soul cried out against such sloven- liness. She placed her arm along the cool sur- face of the enamel table and bent over her coffee cup. But she saw again those flowers on the floor, and with a sigh she pushed back her chair and went for the broom. Ella Kerr was, when she stood up, not very tall, barely five feet. She had bobbed grey hair which was continually falling into her eyes. She was wearing a flimsy, sleeveless dress, and it showed her flabby arms with the flesh hanging upon her bones. Her face was still smooth, but her features had changed in the last twenty years and she looked almost grotesque, in a kindly sort of way. Since her youngest son. Tommy, had left, Mrs. Kerr had lived alone, rarely going out. Her lonely existence would have made many another woman melancholy, but Ella seemed to have some unfailing faith that relieved her boredom. Her husband, Willie, had died five years ago, leaving her a steady income from the insurance, and Mary, her eldest daughter, sent her money from Chicago. Ella never had to go without any- thing money could buy. But there were things money could not buy, and some of these things were companionship and the happiness of the past. For Ella had been happy in the past. She had watched and cared for her five children as they romped in and out of the years. Then they had left her, one by one, and each departure had made her life less happy. First it was Mary, the career girl, and then George, answering the call of aviation. It had almost killed her when Jane had married. Willie and Ella had forbidden Jane to marry, but Jane had taken matters in her own hands and had run off with the fellow. Six months after her marriage, Matthew had been killed in an automobile accident. It was the shock of his death that had killed Willie, for Matthew had been Willie ' s favorite son, destined to be his successor in the grocery business. The two deaths had saddened Ella. There was only Tommy left to her and she was determined that he should never leave her. Then one autumn he did leave, for the university. I got to get an education. Ma, he said, pinch- ing her tear-stained cheeks, if Fm to run Pa ' s grocery business. She had smiled then and sat down to wait for two years. Perhaps she was thinking about Tommy or perhaps it was the crick she had got in her back bending over to pick up the dead flowers that made her face so pitiful when she came back to her lunch. Whichever it was, it must have been quite a few minutes before she realized that someone was blowing the horn an automobile outside. She went out onto the porch, slamming the screen-door behind her. It was as if she had walked into a flood of sunlight. Sunshine streamed about her; the hot sun blinded her. She shaded her eyes and looked out across the dusty lawn to the stunted ma|)les at the head of the driveway. Tommy! she cried. Tom! Sobbing, she ran across to her son. Gee, Ma! Gee, you haven ' t changed a bit! Tommy was tall and blond, and the sunlight made him a young god. Ma, do you know what? I quit the university. Do )ou know why? Ma, do you know why? No, Tommy. Why? But she did know why. He was coming home now, for good. I ' ve got a job. He stopped and looked at her. Out at the West Coast. It ' s a swell job with an insurance company. Of course, I ' m only a sales- man, but I can work my way up. Lots of people have — Ma. Ma, you don ' t mind; do you? What about the grocery business, Tom? But, Ma, what could I do in this small town? Anyway Jack Crandell ' s running the business better than 1 could. Isn ' t he. Ma? Ella said nothing. Gee, Ma, I got to go get washed up. I got to leave in the morning.