Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

Page 12 text:

IO SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR. to him that he was at a huge school gathering. His mood taught him that each of the four divisions was an under- graduate class. 11 is common-sense told him that grouped immediately about the stand were Seniors, that directly before it were Freshman, that the haughty ones were fellow-Sophomores, and the others just Juniors. But the nature of the exercises completely puzzled him. At length it seemed quite natural to query of a youth whose recognized leader- ship and unlimited self-confidence proved him to be no other than the president of the Senior class and master of cere- monies,— “ What sort ot a shooting match is this ? ” “ These,— O ignorant one,—these are the Woodbine exercises. Here, annu- ally, we gather black sheep into the fold, we welcome the Freshmen, as it were. Here, annually, the president of the Senior class hands down to posterity an oration. That,” he remarked, pointing to the large, black stage, “is the centre- piece. am the master-piece.” Just then everything became silent, and all attention was turned toward a solemn procession issuing from under the gloomy branches. A Sophomore and a Junior supported a large draped motto, escorted by a dozen hushed Seniors in lock step. Evidently “Quak- er’s meeting ” had begun. They paused before the pulpit, and raised the placard high above their heads. The president mounted the stairs, all the Seniors re- moved their hats, and the stillness be- came oppressive. At last, clearing his rhetorical throat, he began — “ My children, our first duty is to bid you welcome. It is done. It is our next to prepare you for the obligations you take upon yourselves by thus entering our classic halls and woody grove. Your first perquisite is a motto. Recognizing the fact that your inexperi- ence would render it difficult, we have consequently made the choice for you. Torches! ” At this, two flaming lights were held before the chromo, and the president gracefully reached over and loosed the drapery, declaiming,— “ Ignorance is bliss.” “ The Latin for which is er — er — £. Pluribus Unum, which you see engraved upon this canvas. It is your motto, 'lake it — keep it — live up to it — out- grow it. Marshals, do your duty ! ” The whole escort advanced, and the marshals unsmilingly presented the pon- derous daub to the only Freshman in long trousers, whose embarassment proved too great for words. Next, the other class presidents were called upon to volunteer advice. The sub- stance of the Junior’s remarks was just this — “ a little learning is a dangerous thing.” The Sophomore prated more extensively, yet said much less. Finally he unconsciously succeeded in creating the impression that if the last speaker’s words were true, Sophomores would never be very dangerous. Other re- marks were given and received, argu- ments were made and un-made, all out- lining the Freshman's position, obliga- tions, present uselessness, and hope of future value. Throughout all these ser- vices a serious, solemn, almost sombre vein had been sustained. It had seemed necessary to present to the Freshmen a calm, indifferent demeanor, a contrast to their own child-like maneuvers. The Senior president himself, by his taciturn and laconic sentences, discouraged any approach to light-headed clatter, and with his classical frown crushed all hys- terical chuckles. Again the Seniors resumed control. Again the master of ceremonies rose to the occasion. Again he addressed coun- selling words to the attentive throng. “ Colleagues, the dawn appears. Freshmen, at last reflective realization dawns upon your vacant minds. To accomplish this, to make you see your duty clear and give you strength to do it,— that is why we hold these brief sepulchral exercises. Now prepare yourselves for the worst. Among us is a strange phenomenon, a man out of place in his surroundings, with oily tongue but shallow mind, — gentlemen, it is with grave misgiving and severe apprehen- sion that I permit our poet laureat to spout. Cave canem. Nothing daunted this black-hearted individual rose. With both hands in his pockets he humorously bowed to the

Page 11 text:

SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR. 9 TLhe Sophomore's IDream. CLAM. Arid August had just blown into sur- reptitious September. Classical applica- tion had just succeeded irresponsible freedom. The Sophomore parted with his vacation feeling as only a Sopho- more can. Having served his one year’s apprenticeship, he returned to his Alma Mater with the mistaken idea that he was a factor in her institutions, that he was something a little lower than a Senior and immeasurably greater than a Freshman, and that he was a subject to be regarded with wonder and admiration by the existing class of inexperienced youngsters. In fact, his whole appear- ance suggested the idea that internally the estimate placed upon his general value was “ O.K.” For a time this indomitable self-satis- faction wore well. It always does. It might have lasted indefinitely but for circumstances. The present Freshman class, like all other Freshman classes (possibly like the very Freshman class in which our Sophomore had once begun an unsuccessful stern chase after knowl- edge), despite its glaring greenness, its natural and child-like freshness, ceased to do many things which smack of our more cosmopolitan grammar school education, ceased to feel out of place in its classical surroundings, and ceased to look upon a Sophomore as a rare and happy possi- bility, reverencing only a few tall Seniors and the busy Radiator men. This reaction had a bad effect upon the Sophomore in question. He medi- tated upon his wrongs daily in long and tedious study periods, and nightly in calm and peaceful sleep. One night, after participation in a little game of whist, a happy, blissful dream seemed to reveal a method of solving the whole difficulty. The vision appeared about midnight. The first sensation was motion, that vague, indescribable feeling of motion that carries us through all our nocturnal travels, in a mass of darkness which sometimes resolves itself into night, and sometimes remains shapeless, boundless space. Then the dreamy student be- came conscious of a ludicrous feeling of compulsion. He was sailing through the air at a track-sprinter’s pace, but not because he wanted to. Yet he seemed to be driving something,— what it was the gloom effectually concealed, but he held a line in each hand. Still he wasn’t exactly “pushing on the reins,’’ the reins were pulling him. “Somebody’s got me on a string,— no, two strings,— perhaps they’re apron strings,” he mused. The reins dropped. The scene shifted. He found himself in a grove— a grove of pines and firs and hemlocks, whose bristling branches, in the moon’s gentle light, shut out the heavens in patches resembling irregular daubs of ink. Between the two battalions of silent, listening shadows was an open space. The ground was covered with young fellows, who from their number and disorder could be nothing but stu- dents. They were supported by long laboratory settees grouped in a semi- circle around a carefully built centre- piece, a black speaker's platform, bear- ing in long gold letters upon its face, “ Tandem.” About this stand, pro- tected by this motto, was a group of tall, sober boys. The main body was in three divisions. A motley crowd of grinning, twisting, wriggling children in the middle was flanked on the right by a haughty array under the proud banner, “Knowledge is Power,” and on the left by a sedate, well-behaving coterie who unpretentiously displayed the standard, “Our Trust Is in the Seniors.” In his vision the Sophomore was standing near the platform. The feel- ing of restraint was gone. He was par- ticipating in th° shifting scene as a spec- tator ; he was walking, listening, seeing, and thinking. 11 is fancy soon revealed

Page 13 text:

SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR. president and replied, “Thanks, aw- fully.” Then producing a piece of scrap-paper, and grinning at the waving trees, he rambled — As green as Pat’s emerald necktie, As fresh as a messenger kid: For Freshmen will be Freshmen, And do as they always did. What will the Sophomores do to them? Yes, what will they do, 0 quid! The Sophs will just be Sophomores, And do as they always did. What will their finish be. my friends ? Thus 1 close my little rid. For poets will be poets. And do as they always did. I I “Extinguish him!” thundered the president. He was promptly “extinguished” by six stalwart footballists. But there was a struggle. And in that struggle every- thing became blurred to the sleeping hero of this tale. With cries of “ A das! A has! every one rushed at his neighbor, and there was a lively melee, like a gigantic football game, with wails and shouts, a perfect hullaballoo. The dreaming Sophomore awoke, shuddered, turned over, and went to sleep again, muttering,— “The next time I play poker my name’s Cicero.” Zbc Bells of Sheathness Mlaoe. LESLIE II. GRANT. A tale, —I’ll tell. A tale, —I’ll tell. Thus ring, to this day, the bells of Sheathness Village, as they swing in the ivied, square-roofed tower overlook- ing the little square. But perhaps you are not acquainted with Sheathness Village. If you are, you will bear me out in my story; if not, I will try to enlighten you. Sheath- ness Village nestles in a green vale of pasture lands, with here and there an acre of oaks to relieve the eye, and is not more than a mile from the Sussex shore; so near, in fact, that when the southern gales are blowing, the “rote,” or low roaring of the beating seas, can be heard plainly by the villagers. “A tale—I’ll tell!” ring the bells; but though they iterate and re-iterate the promise, the telling is left to the inn-keeper of the “Three Trees,” almost under the shadow of the bell tower. The host of this quaint, sleepy hostelry is a harmless, amiable fellow, who, with- out much pressing, will tell you the whole story, with many embellishments of his own thrown in. I suppose nearly every old English village has its “village tale,” but this one is of especial interest to me, perhaps, because I enjoy such lore, and perhaps because it was told me on the very spot of its occurrence. The host, it seems, received this story from his grandfather by word of mouth, and he, in turn, from his grandfather, who was the host of the “Three Trees” at the time. One very stormy night in late Octo- ber the bells rang out the warning that a ship had gone ashore at Sheathness Hook. This ship was a large French brig. From the wreck but eight or nine persons were saved—an old Frenchman with his servant, and his daughter, a beautiful girl, a young English soldier, and four or five of the crew. The Eng- lishman swam ashore with the girl—the rest were saved by the townspeople. Most of the wreckage was claimed by the people, but several large boxes were proved to be the old man’s property, and were taken to the inn where he took lodgings. The English soldier proceeded on to London, but the French family remained in Sheathness. There the old man pro- duced from his rescued boxes a variety of queer bottles and flasks, and mortars and pipes which he (the inn-keeper) did not disturb, as they savored strongly of witchcraft. These things the guest set up in his room and worked there con- tinually, making queer powders and other such things.