Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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30 Stars Brooke Durant, ' 48 Did vou ever lie on your back and gaze up on high. Toward the bright heavenly bodies far up in the sky. And wonder how large the speck may be That ' s shining down at you and me? Have you looked at one star with its endless glimmer To wonder why its rays shine and shimmer? Did you ever wonder if these dots bear life? Whether people there have hardships and strife? Or if from these dots life be extinct How to the universe is our earth linked? And then a white snake is made by a star, — The number of miles is just how far? Then what of this celestial sphere? The thought of it may turn to fear. As you think what ' s beyond the stars in the sky. The thoughts are endless of the Powers on high. My Most Unforgettable Characters Alette Dolan, ' 48 I ' ve met a lot of characters in my life, people that have made me laugh or weep, or that have moved me to pity or disgust. But 1 shall forget many of them. The only real people in the world, those whose character you can never forget, are children. Only during childhood is the true personality of an individual evident. After years of hearing, People won ' t like you if you do that, dear . . . Nice little boys don ' t say such things . . . Please show your best manners at Sunday School, and all the parental admonitions that go with a good bringing up, nearly all of us are worn down to the same pattern. That is why unforgettable characters are so rare among adults that when one is finally discovered, his admirers go to great lengths publicizing him. Of course, the sobering phenomenon that accompanies growing older is necessary. The salt of the earth would certainly lose its flavor if we all retained the marvelously uninhibited tem- peraments of our childhood. But if ) ou ever decide that life is dull and humans are duller, run out and really get acquainted with those little people playing in your back yard. The first time that I was confronted with a large group of children, I was not aware of each little individualist and the remarkable manner- isms that were his. and his alone. 1 was more occupied with exhibiting my new dress, and my new haircut, and my patent leathers, which were surely worthy of such a great event as my first day in the first grade. But even during that year and the succeeding ones, before I learned to appreciate children, there loomed an unfor- gettable. I can see Tommy now. his face covered with freckles, where )ou could see through the dirt, and topped by a tangle of brown hair which was badly in need of cutting. He wore a pair of grey corduroy knickers that bagged nearly to his ankles, bought with room to grow into them. He sloshed along in a mud puddle, happily dis- daining the sidewalk, stooping now and then to pick up a wriggling angle worm and pop it into his pocket. Here was a 1936 Tom Sawyer. I ' d call him a real American boy, but the teachers and the good mothers of the neighborhood had other names for him. Tommy loved to collect things, and never seemed to be without a mouse, a snake or a toad in his pocket. Somehow he never caught the usual childhood diseases. He bothered only with small pox. And once he broke his leg by scaling a six-foot wooden fence and landing twenty-six feet below on the other side, in a newly-excavated cellar. When we were in the sixth grade. Tommy got a new bike for his birthday. 1 never saw him again, for I moved awav two weeks later and Tommy was in the hospital at the time. He ' d had a little accident with his bike. People talk about children being frightened by their teachers. I was thirteen when I first attempted teaching Sunday School, and I was never so terrified in my life. At this point another character whom I shall not soon forget reared his impish little head. He announced that his name was Sherbie, and would I please tell him how to spell antidisestablishmentarianism ? While 1 nervously sought to regain my com- posure. Sherbie regaled the class with the latest moron stories. He had electric brown eyes, and an amusingly short brush of straight black hair. While most second graders were content to chant Ohh aaah oooh , Sherbie sang his hymns like a man. He loudly caroled, Bring forth the royal diaphragm, and crown Him Lord of all. I ' ve never seen anyone more naturalh alert than Sherbie. He seldom missed an opportunity to display his wit. Once he was sent to get a large manila envelope for our collection money. He returned with a small pink one. They didn ' t have any manila, he apologized. So I got strawberry. Perhaps the thought of a teen-ager writing about children amuses you as much as Joan amused me this evening. I was reminding her how she used to say her ABC ' s — ABCDEFG. HIJKLMN. OP. QRS. and TUV. WHDH. Bos- ton! Joan laughed. I used to be funny when I was a little girl, huh. Let? Joan is three now.

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29 WEBS Josephine Miles, ' 48 All lhat was ugly and grim about the city was so altered by the falling mist that everything around her took on the exciting, enchanting (jualities of a mystery . . . She lifted her face unresistingly to the falling rain as if searching there for some answer to the wild, surging joy she experienced in the sudden freshness of the moment. She felt that she must know how the parched earth feels with the first spat- tering of rain on its face ... its thirst hardly quenched by the little drops, aching, craving, for more. She knew what it must be like to gaze from the bottom of a pool through the rain-drops dotting its surface, into the rainbow above . . . for the silver drops fell into her unclosed eyes, splashing against her eyeballs and sending the images of little lights afloat, as if the tears of heaven had come down and replaced her own. Lights sent sparkling paths across the pave- ment. Black rivers were flowing everywhere, and across them the paths of a hundred moons lighted her way home. Light on the cobblestones made a shining web, as if some monstrous spider had spun the wretched alleys with pure silver . . . Fresh, and washed clean, breathing the mys- terious dew of night, she made her way through the labyrinth of alleys, and then, turning abruptly, fled up the stairs of her dank, foul apartment . . . The Old Cape Codder Stanwood Briggs, ' 48 I met him just as he was climbing into his skiff. It was early morning and the sand was cold and damp from the night. Wait a minute! I called as I ran over to him. He stopped and looked up at me. What can I do for yuh? he asked, wiping his nose with a big red bandanna. With one glance of his keen blue eyes, he appraised me. For my part I saw a tall, slightly-stooped old man, perhaps sixty-five or seventy years old. He wore an old flannel shirt and faded blue over- alls. He had on old tattered rubber boots and a long-visored fishing cap. Would you hire me for a couple of weeks? I asked him. I want to learn how to fish. All depends, he replied, a twinkle in his eye. Depends on what? I asked feeling helpless. On whether or not you are a cap ' ble seaman. The town that 1 come from is on the ocean and 1 own a skiff there, I replied, anxious to make a good impression on the old man. I ' ll give you a chance today. Climb aboard and shove off, he said and lit his pipe. I jumped into the stern and i ushed off. The old man rowed. My name is Joe Basset, I offered by way of conversation. Mine ' s Bob Nickerson, he replied. We rowed to the fishing boat in silence, my companion puffing on his old battered pipe and 1 watching the gulls overhead. The fishing boat was just like the owner, old but neat and clean. 1 watched while he got the old model-A engine running. Cast off the bow line! he shouted above the unmuffled roar of the engine. 1 hastened to obey, and soon we were chugging down toward open ocean. Can you take the helm? I have some hooks to bait, he suddenly demanded. Sure, I answered, glad of a chance to prove my worth to the skeptical old man. Keep ' er to the starboard. 1 did as I was commanded. Not so far over, he shouted. Do you want to run us aground? So it was all day. I never did anything right. At least nothing was right as far as he was con- cerned. Take the matter of pulling the trolls. First I ran the boat too fast and then too slow. He shouted at me constantly in his funny Cape Cod drawl. I was afraid he would not hire me. On the way to the dock he was silent. I didn ' t know what to do or say, so I just sat. Although I had made many mistakes, 1 loved the sea and wanted a chance to make good at my first real job. 1 wanted to tell him just how much the job would mean to me. but the words wouldn ' t come. There were several men loafing on the pier as we came in. As we tied, the old man took his pipe out of his mouth, spat with accuracy on an old piling and then cleared his throat. Boys, he drawled, I want you to meet my new crew member. Wh at ' s your name again? Joe Basset, I choked out and my eyes filled with tears. I tried to thank him. but all he said was to unload them fish.

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31 Thinking Elizahclh Classic, 7 A I uish 1 could tliiiik of what rhymes with Chimes Of course there are words Hke climbs and limes. But my poem would be of no consequence If I wrote down words that made no sense; I wish 1 could think of words and rhymes So I could write a poem for the Chimes. Adventures on The High Seas Betty Murrill, ' 50 The southwest wind leisurely moved the dirty, gray sail. Slowly the sun sank in a blaze of crim- son glorv below the water as, one by one, the clouds drifted across the sky, seeking a haven for the night. In the stern of the cat boat, the rhythmic flap-flap of the water could be heard as the waves beat against the bow. Jeremiah Thompson, an old salt of the life begins at eighty group. opened his water canteen and took a mouthful. Well I ' m not as sickly and delicate as they say, he thought. He did not no- tice that the current had pulled him far out to sea. His only thoughts were that he had outsmarted his sons. Old and sickly! Hmp! He ' d show ' em — wasn ' t a man round about who could beat him in a cat boat race. « « ■;!■ Meanwhile the schooner, Alhambra, carrying tea and silk from the far-off Orient, slowly moved along. On deck, groups of about ten dark-skinned natives pulled at their oars, always mindful of the thick iron chains that bound them to their places. The heat was blistering even though the sun had disappeared from sight. Overlooking the slaves. Captain Ranson stood with a troubled look on his brow and a horsehide whip in his hand. On the upper deck were many cabins. One such cabin was filled with a haze from an incense pot which stood on an ornately-carved table. Beaded curtains hung limp against the portholes. Blending in with her surroundings, a beautiful girl sat combing her dark hair into rich waves. With a flip of her wrist she tucked a pearl-studded comb into her hair. Outside Captain Ranson paced the deck. They were in pirate waters now. and with the cargo they were carrying, anything could happen. Seeing an outline against the horizon, he took his spyglass and looked. It was a ship, and it was flying the Jolly Roger . Rapidly the ship approached and drew along side the Alhniubru. (iuns roared and cutlasses flashed. All this time old Mr. Thompson sat stumied and uidielieving. It wasn ' t possible — a pirate ship fighting with a schooner in 1948. Pirates, meanwhile, chunbered on board the Alhambra. Some fought with the crew of the shij) while others started unloading the cargo. Sud- denly a woman screamed as she was pushed over the side from the up[)er deck. At this point Jeremiah Thompson passed out. When he came to, it was morning and the sea was placid. For a while he remembered nothing and then it all came back to him — the battle and the woman screaming as she fell. My mind nmst have cracked! The sun was too much for me, he thought. However, glancing down, he saw something unusual. No, it couldn ' t be! But it was — a pearl-studded comb such as would be worn by a young woman of the 17()0 ' s. Then he remem- bered. As the woman fell, something white had flashed m the air. When he reached home and told his story, no one believed him. He must have dreamed it. But yet t he comb! How did it get there? That night Jeremiah Thompson died. The doctor said that the excitement had been too much for his heart. Two days later an article appeared in the Craigville Times saying that scenes for the new movie, Piracy on the High Seas , were being taken six miles out from the harbor of Craigville. Jeremiah had seen Hollywood in action. Beautiful and Not Dumb Janet Allen, ' 48 I remember well the first day I met her. The country was resplendent in its autumn foliage. On a knoll at my left stood a clump of beeches, their leaves a golden shower. To the right grew scarlet sumac massed about a slender white birch, and in the distance I could see a purple hill sil- houetted against a curtain of rich blue sky. It was a special sort of day. She stood in front of me partly concealed by tall grass. She was so small she could only utter little whimpers, but she was trying very hard to talk and tell me all her troubles. She liked me . . . and I liked her; that ' s all that really counted. At first I fed her with a teaspoon, but she ' s a big girl now and eats everything in sight with- out help from me. When she hears the refrigera- tor door open and close, she thinks it is her cue