Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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15 TERRY Anne McKenzie, ' 46 TE H ledhea ERRY was is mother and father were Irish, and he was a typ- ical son of old Erin. He was happy-j; luck) , cr good- natured and frietidly, but like a true Irishman he never backed away from a fight. When he was about two months old. it became neces- sary for him to leave his family and make his home with new but loving parents. At first he was very lone- some and missed his brothers and sisters so much that all night he would keep the en- tire household awake with his cr) ing. But his new par- ents were very understanding and patient with him. When he was just so unhappy that he couldn ' t stand it another minute, they would get him some warm milk. On rare occasions they would even take him into bed with them and talk to him until he was happy and contented again. Terry ' s new mother sang in the village choir, and every Sunday before church when she was rehearsing, Terry and his dad would get into the car and ride out into the country where they would go for long walks in the woods. Terry ' s education in woodlore started very early. His dad taught him everything about trails and paths in the forest. Terry soon learned that although bees were very cute and sounded very funny when they buzzed, they should be left severely alone, because they carried a nastv little dagger that made him cry whenever he felt it. He learned all about the birds in the forest too — that they could disappear in the bushes and no one could find them unless it was a dog just trained to point and scent birds. Many, many hours were spent by Terry and his dad learning just how a little dog would go about the job of pointing birds. And it was really a very good idea, and well worth while because, you see, Terry was a little Irish setter. OUR FLAG Gilbert Patterson, ' 43 In a world of trouble, torment, and tears. There is one thing that may reduce our fears, The thought of our flag — Red, White, and Blue, That stands for democracy and freedom too. It waves on high from coast to coast. Salute it daily, give it a toast. Its sparkling colors shall always be Remembered from the Pacific to Germany. THE WITCH Forbes McLean, ' 46 High on her broomstick she does ride. With the very devil at her side. She spreads destruction far beneath. As she mutters chants between her teeth. Atop the tempest she shrieks her curse, For she is evil at its worst. Her black cat sneers with yellow eyes, As o ' er the paths, the broomstick flies. She thrives on lightning; she hides by fire. And her flames of hate go higher and higher. Her very wish is the voice of doom, As she glides away upon her broom.

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14 and wave back. He then settled himself behind the machine gun and began to trim the branches around and above my head. As they became scarcer and scarcer, I decided that I might be in his way; so I shifted myself to a better place of refuge behind the main trunk of the tree. He finally stopped firing and so I imagined he had hit what he was aiming at, although it seemed to me he had used up a lot of ammunition to do it. Then a man drove up in one of those war-buggies they call jeeps. All the men piled into it, and they headed for my tree. They must be coming over to see me, I thought, but. as I am the bashful type, I decided it was time to leave. The next day ' s newspaper carried the story of an unknown sniper who was observing the maneuvers of the armed personnel at the Government Restricted Area of Hingham. Luckily, the story went on, Sergeant Boles was on his toes and this sniper was routed before he did any damage. I am still in deathly fear of a visit from the F. B. I. or the War Department. ARE WE SOFT? Rocco Foniri, ' 45 In many of the speeches of Hitler or Tojo, one or the other has said, The American people are soft; they can easily be defeated because of their people and government. Have you ever con- centrated on this subject? Would you say we are soft? Can we easily be defeated? These ques- tions are hard to answer. My opinion is that we aren ' t soft nor can we easily be defeated. Let me give you examples of Americans ' being soft. At Pearl Harbor, did we quit? At Bataan or Corregidor, were we easily defeated? At Coral Sea did we lose? At Midway did we cry? At Guadalcanal were the Marines soft? The Axis talked big then, but they wish they had never started a fight against the men like Mac- Arthur, Eisenhower, Montgomery — and countries like Poland, Greece, France, and even Holland. To those who have died for us we must pay tribute, for they fired bullets, and stopped them too. Those men fighting out there want only one thing. They want America to win this war. They want us to appreciate the values of democ- racy, life, and the four domestic and social free- doms. The Axis nations will fall because our men who landed at Ireland and at North Africa have only one thing in mind : we came, we will fight, and we will win victory. Victory will bs won by our fighting heroes because they are fight- ing to preserve freedom in God ' s almighty way. SENIOR CLASS NOTES {Continued jrom Page 5) John Billings, of the U. S. Army Air Force, who started his career as consulting engineer, lock- smith, and electrical genius at the approximate age of four. As a gesture of magnanimity, the Army and Navy have graciously allowed the re- maining members of this class of military and naval genius to finish their secondary education. A few typical reserve officers of the senior class are John Wilder. S. H. S. king of the slide rule, who plans on His Majesty ' s Royal Navy; Bob Hendrickson, five-place logarithm operator, who prefers the Coast Guard; Jerome Walsh, World War 1 strategist, who favors the Marines; and Pat Butler, the raconteur of the physics lab, who, strangely enough, likes the Army. All in all, the senior class of 1943 has proved itself the best endowed with all- ' round genius of any such class heretofore established. THE VALUE OF A LIBERAL EDUCATION TODAY {Continued jrom Page 12 How can we expect to win the next peace per- manently unless through men of this type? I do not speak of the chemist or the physicist iso- lated in his laboratory, nor the scholar hidden in his books, nor the idle, polished, college gradu- ate, but of a happy mean — a man versed in man ' s and nature ' s laws alike. If the educators of this country, and of the world, can realize the tre- mendous need for men of this caliber, the next generation will be infinitely better prepared to meet the problems of the post-war world. » Sign in a fruit store window: Fine apples. Buy now. Remember the early bird gets the worm. » A woman rushed into an elevator on the first floor and asked, Is this car going up? No, Madam, replied the operator, this is a cross-town car. » He: Let ' s get married. She: Good Lord! Who ' ll have us?

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16 AT THE FOOT OF THE CRAGS Patricia McLean, ' 43 There were days and nights — they seem so far past now — when I could sit by the cold gray stones and dream of peace and beauty. No mat- ter what the hour or the weather, there was love- liness to be found in the vast, illimitable stretch of sea before me. Sparkling and dancing be- neath the early inorning sun; calm and unrippled in the path of silver moon glow; raging like a savage, infuriated beast when the winds hurled foam into the air and the rocks thundered and roared in their teeth — the mood of the sea, mat- tered not, for in each and every change there was indescribable, awesome beauty. That is all a dream now, a dream banished the fatal day the blood of mankind stained the waters red, and the ships of dauntless men went to their haven under the hill, and the air was foul with Death. Now for me there is no more of that breath-taking loveliness I once thrilled to; now I see naught but treachery and cun- ning and murder in every last white cap and wave. The still, shimmering surface, bathed in white moonlight, is but a deadly cover-up for the long, grasping fingers of slaughter, reaching down, down through the inky caverns of water to smash into smithereens young lives and old alike. The tossing, tearing sea is now a mere device to prevent any possible chance of preserv- ing a life clinging to a fragment of board with eager, icy hands. The apparent serenity that comes with a glorious dawn flooded with sunlight is a blind for the previous night ' s insidious dev- iltries. And so I kneel at the foot of the crags and pour out my heart in a prayer for peace. My whispered plea becomes a cry from the depths of a million souls, a cry drowning out the break- ing of the waves and echoing back throughout the hollows in the crags of a joyous, hopeful ring that sings of victory, freedom, and peace! The Most Unforgettable Character I Have Ever Met Howard Tindall, ' 43 Who was that coming at me with the smile on his face? I ' d already had a ten-minute session with some guy whom I couldn ' t place, and here I ' d only gone a couple of blocks and another one was coming on. Perhaps I was mistaken and I didn ' t know him. Not a chance. I got into the Boylston Street gutter to give him every chance to pass, but he waded in after me with hand outstretched. Well! What d ' ya say, Sport? I stammered, voice dripping with false enthusiasm. It was a cinch I was going to have to run through my pronouns, Sport, Chum, Star, Kid and almost anything I could think of at the time. Less every day, Scratch, he laughed. I broke into a sweat. Look, I gotta catch a train. Mosey over to the station with me, will ya? I was only wandering anyway, and so at the end of the second and a half that he allowed me for a reply I was without a reasonable excuse. He waited no longer and, diving into the swarms, took a three-pace lead which I was never to re- cover. I say with all due admiration, he trav- eled like a streak. How ' s the horn comin ' ? he snapped over his shoulder, the volume almost upsetting a poor old lady. OK, we ' ve got a nine-piecer, now, I replied. Had I played with this guy? How are you doin ' ? I yelled, hoping for a lead to his iden- tity . Oh, pretty good on the whole. Say, ya know, I haven ' t seen you since the time we . . . Whip- ping through a narrow gap which closed imme- diately after him, he was lost to me and, when I finally caught up again by taking to the middle of the street and risking the wild taxis, I heard him say, — and so you see, I haven ' t done so badly. I agreed with him heartily as I vaulted over the hood of the car he had managed to beat to the crossing. I recovered my footing just in time to aid an elderly gentleman to his feet after my cyclone friend had knocked his knees out from under him in his effort to duck a dangerous umbrella-spoke of a sun-fearing woman. As we hit the last long stretch and the station rolled into sight, I ran the fifty-odd yard gain he had on me and demanded in restrained tones just when his train was due to leave. Three-thirty-eight, he replied. I glanced briefly at my watch and found to my horror that it read exactly thirty-seven and one-half minutes past three. You have your ticket already, of course, I said nervously, fearing the worst. I heard his reply in the negative from a some- what awkward upside-down position caused by a violent twist to the left which had flung me into a half-turn back soinersault in midair. When I informed him of the time, I couldn ' t see any facial expression of concern, at least from my rather poor view of his bobbing countenance. {Continued on Page 19)