Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR 7 The Kiss of Caramenta John E. Pierce, 1927 ITH silver spurs adorning his heels, slender sword at side, and gay plume waving from his military head-dress, Ramond Cornwallis made a manly figure as he strode with the newly-acquired carriage of a cavalry man, across the wide courtyard of Brandon Castle. He gazed with eager eyes and joyful anticipation at the massive portals and lofty towers, but only for a moment. It was not to admire its sinister architecture that he had traveled a thousand weary miles and his mind dwelt on another matter, to be exact, on the beautiful daughter of this castle's mighty lord. She, Caramenta, knew of his coming, he had seen to that, and no doubt she awaited his coming with joy, so with light step he allowed himself to be ushered into the spacious, oak- panelled reception hall. For a moment his eyes were a little unaccustomed to the half light, but this quickly passed as he stood gazing about him, marveling at the strength and solid beauty of the hall. A mighty room it was, panelled in black oak with ponderous beams to uphold the roof. So dark had it become that a number of wax tapers had been placed in convenient sconces and their mellow light cast grotesque shadows upon the stone slabs of the floor, at the same time lighting up the banners and standards which hung along the walls in dusky splendor. Ramond’s eyes wandered from these things to a small door at the further end of the hall through which he knew Caramenta would come. He hadn’t seen her for three years, how he had looked forward to this mo- ment! He wondered if she had changed—he hoped not. On the occasion of his final visit three years before she had worn a pale green dress slashed with gold, a golden girdle about her waist and in her hair a rose, pure white. He would never forget that picture, nor would he forgot the time when—but here his thoughts were interrupted, the little oaken door swung alertly open, and framed in the aperture was Caramenta in her green dress with the golden girdle, but in her hair was a rose of blood red. Just as she had stood three years before and raised her hand in farewell, now she stood and lifted it in welcome. Slowly she approached Ramond. and with a glad cry the youth steped forward and caught her to him in a crushing embrace. Their lip met, no sooner touched than a mighty pain shot through his back between the shoulders. Caramenta stepped back and as Ramond slid to the floor, with his last glance he saw in Caramenta’s hand a slender dagger, stained and dropping red. “Die, thou Judas,” came like an oath from her red lips, and Ramond lay on the stone floor in a pool of his own life’s blood. Again she stabbed, and left the dagger there. When the servants entered the hall some hours later a terrible sight met their frightened gaze. By the fitful illumination of the now almost-used tapers the ghastly sight appeared even the more horrible. Stretched upon the floor in a hideous pool ol blood lay one of the finest cavalry officers of the past two years,, the hilt of a deeply driven dagger protruding from between the shoulder blades. Three paces beyond, sprawling over a bench, was Caramenta. daughter of the lord of the castle and the most beautiful woman in the country, her breast pierced by another dagger whose jeweled handle sparkled in the light. Both had been dead some time. The look on the face of Ramond Cornwallis arrested the gaze of the frightened onlookers, and the lord after first noticing it commanded the body to be instantly removed. It was a look of infinite surprise mingled with terror, with a very little reproach. Terrible in its fixedness, the look of a man wha knew he was meeting his doom from the hand of the one he loved, and knowing also that he had received naught but justice, and that she had knowledge of his sins. The face of the other was set in an entirely different expres- sion. Sad, extremely so, with disappointment showing clearly. The fixedness of the jaw, however, showed her determination of purpose went to the sacrificing of her love that she might bring justice to a wrongdoer. How she had suffered! Even to the last, but even love can be suppressed when a strong will wishes it to be. So Caramenta kissed her lover on his return, and even the father never learned the reason of his daughter’s and her lover’s death, nor did he so much as dream that both daggers had been planted by the same hand,, and that the hand of his own and beloved daughter.

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6 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR I i i i EDITORIALS I I I AND NOW— Time rolls swiftly on. But a short day ago we were Sophomores, striving always to im- prove, that as Seniors, we might be as nearly perfect as is humanly possible. We looked with envious eyes upon our upper classmen. One of our great ambitions was to become a Senior! A Senior! There was magic in the word! And now—We are Seniors! We have made .a goal and one that is of great importance in our lives. For us all, it is the key to the Portal of Knowledge whether we are preparing our- selves for college or for life. Considering this the responsibilities of a Senior are manifold. It is we who must set the example for others to follow. We who must show ourselves ready to progress as true and worthy Seniors! We who must carry our banner to the heights and plant it on the highest peak! This is our golden year of opportunity. Our talents and our capabilities have chance for development. Our abilities for leadership are revealed. The very best that is in us is brought, to the surface. A great deal of responsibility is placed upon our shoulders. More is expected of us, more demanded than ever before. We must give the more because we have more to give. High though the standards of our predecessors have been, higher must we raise our own. How- ever well done the duties of those who have gone before us, ours must be performed still better. And now—We are Seniors! Our task is not too great that we have set ourselves to do. Mary Maguire, class of 1926, has prepared the shorthand for this issue of the Radiator. Now that the Sophomores are becoming better acquainted with the situation of various classrooms, the Traffic Squad reports that there are fewer requests for the elevator’s location. I WISH— What I wish for the Somerville High School and its pupils during this year:— I wish a year of good health so that teach- ers and pupils may enjoy life to the full. I wish a year free from disaster, personal loss and sadness. I wish a year of educational industry—a year in which there may be a revival of study for its own sake,—a year of earnest purpose to acquire knowledge both of books and the best principles of living. I wish a year of spiritual and moral growth that we may be better able to meet and de- feat the lawlessness and skepticism now raging. I wish that during the year plans may be perfected for a new building to relieve unnec- essary crowding and inconvenience and to give us a chance to expand in every department of our work. This year, 1925-1926, may be the big year for the Somerville High School. Let us all wish together. John A. Avery. October, 1925. Are you doing your best to keep the school grounds neat at lunch recess? Every one of us should have enough pride in our school to keep both buildings and grounds looking their best at all times. And don’t be afraid “to stoop to conquer” a piece of paper on a classroom floor! We read that some cities are trying to pre- vent the sale of hot dogs to the students at lunch time. Beyond a doubt Somerville High could not exist without them. And not yet has our request for a bus line from the car stop to the door of the West building been granted.

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8 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR Maplewood Caddy Camp Elwood Ellis, 1927 T is difficult to put into empty words the full meaning of Maplewood Camp, sitting snugly in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. To have dragged out six weeks of existence in the stifling streets of the summer-time city, and from them to be transported to the free and open spaces, the smiling fields and rolling meadows found in New Hampshire, means “a heap” to a city boy. We have eighty boys in camp. These are none other than the typical lads of the city, he who takes his fun where he finds it and makes it where he doesn't, be he in his own city or here in the “Joyland of New Eng- land.” It is not, however, for my youthful pen to attempt to paint pictures which undoubtedly have been seen by you in substance; rather, ? will attempt to tell about the boys and their life in camp. The average caddy, for we are all caddies, hops out of bed at the stroke of six. Directly he takes his shower to wash away the mental cobwebs that gather in sleep. At 6.30 he is summoned to roll-call by the clear note of the camp bugle, and there hav- ing stood inspection as to his personal appear- ance, he stands at apt attention, while the bugler blows colors and the color-bearers slowly hoist Old Glory. Surely a splendid way to begin the day; his first morning thought, a thought of his country. Then he has his breakfast. Need I write what a good breakfast means to a growing boy, how he lingers over his cereal and cream, the warm and inviting corn muffins and crisp bacon? It seems that our cook realizes that the way to our hearts is through our stomachs. After breakfast each boy swings into his squad work with a vigor that even excels his breakfast enthusiasm. The camp is divided into five groups with a boy who is called a squad leader or councilor leading them in their chosen duties. Where eighty boys live, there is a need for daily cleaning; and a thor- ough cleaning is given the camp every morn- ing. If it is true that he who handles twenty boys can handle fifty men, isn't it also true that great things are in store for these youth- ful leaders? Now his real work begins. He reports to the golf links at 8.30 and is engaged until 11 or 12 o’clock. Here again we see one of the many benefits reaped by the boys, for on the links he comes in contact with those men who in the world of today represent success; busi- ness men, financiers and professional men. How often have I heard a caddy say: ‘‘Gee! I hope I’ll be like that guy some day.” Here is a seed of ambition, the incentive to work for greater things. At 1 o’clock the boy is again at the table. During his hour siesta he is happy and care- free, lolling around the camp until he reports for his afternoon work. After supper and as the sun goes down, the bugler completes the task which he started in the morning by blowing colors while the flag is slowly lowered. The evening is then his own. Eighty boys manage to devise different ways of enjoying their evenings; some stroll to the town of Bethlehem, others play chess and checkers, while others write home. A goodly number also make use of the camp library or engage in pillow swat-feats, or do the thou- sand and other things that only a boy’s mind can conceive. At 9 o’clock takes place the most beautiful ceremony of the day. The bugler, standing a few feet away in the enveloping darkness, tenderly and solemnly blows “taps.” Its slow and memorial strains have reminded more than one of home, and sent him to bed with the last waking thought of mother. But the warm joys of camp life must be lived and not read from cold paper to give them their true worth. For here, many mellow friend- ships take root in youthful hearts to grow until these youths have reached the twilight of their years. To me camp has meant much, for it has taught me and many others how to sacrifice selfish ends for the common weal, to under- stand the practical application of “team work.” It has taught me to love the mountains, the songs of the birds, and the trees. It has brought to me a love for fleeting clouds and for the setting sun that so wondrously makes the western sky with its varied colors a huge kaleidoscope. Maplewood Caddy Camp was founded in 1915 by Norman A. Franzeim, of Boston and Malden, Mass. Its purpose was to promote the health of the boys of the North End of Boston. Later it came to be called a caddy, as well as a health camp. When first established all the shelter were tents, until in 1919, when William (Continued on Page 9)