Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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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

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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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32 lo eat. She loves raw carrots, celery, cabbage and lettuce. I think she enjoys the crunching noise she creates when she eats crisp things. Actually, she eats anything edible. She reminds me of the dog mentioned in the advertisement, Dog for Sale. Will eat anything. Very fond of children. So now you know, even if you didn ' t guess before, that this is a character sketch of my little black and while cocker spaniel. Dottie. alias Saturday Evening Post Dog. Undoubtedly you have seen the cover of the Saturday Evening Post when the little dog has appeared, caught in some act of mischief. The first few weeks after Dottie cam? to live with us were times of tattered slippers, tipped- over wastepaper baskets, bed spreads covered with dirty little foot prints, and all the rest of the signs of a puppy in the house. Rut we didn ' t mind, — not even the time she chewed the bubble gum and got it so badly matted in her fur that she had to have a haircut. I ' nfortunately. we couldn ' t trim the rug. We just scrubbed it hard, and thought about how funny she had looked frantically stringing that gum between her two front paws. 1 remember the morning I came down to break- fast and started to squeeze some oranges for myself. In a second. Dottie was at my feet ask- ing for just a little taste. She asked in her usual way, a short sharp bark. So 1 gave her one piece just to keep her quiet. Have you ever heard of a dog eating oranges? Well, I hadn ' t. 1 turned my Isack on her and continued to cut oranges. In the background I could hear a contented slup! slup! slup! It definitely was not restrained and not at all lady-like. It just couldn ' t be Dottie. Quietly 1 turned around and looked, and sure enough, big as life. Dottie was enjoying her sec- tion of breakfast orange, eating just as a human being would eat it. holding it between her fore- paws. After many trials and tribulations. I succeeded in teaching Dottie to sit up. I placed her in the corner of the living room for the first step, and pushed her up on her haunches, repeating the command. Up. Dottie, up. But her tail slipped from under her and down she went. She looked so ridiculous sprawled out on the floor that I just had to laugh at her. When I straightened up. she was gone. I had hurt her pride laughing at her. She left me sitting in the middle of the floor. I turned just in time to see her peeking around the doorframe to see what I would do next. I coaxed her out, and after a long struggle she managed to lean into the corner with her fore- paws up in a begging position. After that first lesson, her education progressed more rapidly. But one lesson she learned by her- s:lf. It all started one day when my mother removed a shelf from the hot stove to make room for the roast. Mother put the shelf on the floor and went to answer the telephone. Suddenly Dottie began to bark with such frenzy that we all ran to the kitchen. The floor was smoking from the hot grate, and Dottie was dancing around barking like mad. We all petted her and called her a smart dog. and she was certainly ver proud of her performance. From then on. Dottie was official fire-fighter around the house. I nsuspecting guests, striking matches to light cigarettes, found themselves sitting foolishly with a smoking match in their hands. Dottie put them out with her paws. We always had to put a screen in front of the fireplace to keep Dottie from putting out the fire. It was an obsession with her. Any cigarette butt snapped into the grass was immediately extinguished by those busy little paws. Alas, it all came to an abrupt end one afternoon when a smart ) oung man thrust a flam- ing match too close to her nose. She was badly burned, and will have nothing further to do with fire. I think the house could burn down, and she would sit by and stare at it coldly. Dottie is quite different from any other dog we have ever had. But then, whv shouldn ' t she be; dogs are like human beings. Each is an individual with his own unique personality. Dottie has a clump of curls that stand on end everv time the front door bell rings. Her eyes are a soft, melting brown color and always have a pleadingly-innocent look, especially when there is a broken potted geranium on the floor. Her little feet look like old-fashioned rocker skates, and they flop up and down when she trots. Have you ever seen Dumbo, the Elephant? Well, Dottie looks just like Dumbo when she runs, ears flopping, and some day I expect she will take right off into the wild blue yonder. People who believe that dogs are just dumb animals are missing something special in life. They are missing a companionship and under- standing that would survive under any circum- stance. It has been proved that dogs have more common sense than some human beings. March Winds Robert Rodrick, 7B March winds blow. oh. so strong! Turn the corner, don ' t stop long! Hold your hat on very tight! And run. run. with all your might!