Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR II A Visit to the Polar Caves, Rumney, New Hampshire HE advertisement of the Polar Caves reads in somewhat this way: “A Flace of Chills and Thrills. Don’t fail to see the wonder spot of New Hampshire.” For weeks I had been waiting for a party of people who would go south from North Conway. Everyone who came wanted to see Lost River and the Notches. But at last a group of people was as eager as I to see this newly advertised wonder. When we arrived at the reservation and were preparing for the trip through the caves, I was given the largest sized pair of maroon- colored overalls from the pile and a bright blue jumper for my outfit. A flash-light was fastened by a cord to the wrist of each member of the party. I was of course the butt of all the jokes, for the rest were all dressed in the regular knickers. One forgot, however, the minor detail of one’s appearance, when the work of climbing up and descending into the caves began. We entered first the cave which gives the name to the place. It was so low that one had to crawl in and crouch down to see the ice in the form of miniature stalactites clinging to the top. Then we went on to the “Needle’s Eye,” a very narrow entrance to another cave. Above this was a rock, shaped like the head and shoulders of a polar bear. Leaving this cave we climbed to a rock from which the huge figure of a reclining giant could be seen. We next crawled down over steep rocks into a dungeon-like cave—the Indian Council Cham- ber—large enough to hold sixty persons, where the guide told us that a .mass of two hundred and fifty feet of rock was over us. Then we came back to the light by a narrow, tortuous passage called “The Corkscrew.” At this point we saw high on the cliff a perfect form of the Masonic emblem, which we were told was not carved there, but was a natural rock formation. We followed the guide on into another deep cave where the thrill was “The Fat Man’s Slide.” One sat on a smooth rock and let one's self go down into the blackness, not knowing what the end might be. It seemed to be ex- pected that one would shriek all the way. After that, we felt that there could be no greater test of our nerves and courage. But there was still the “Lemon Squeezer,” so diffi- cult to pull one’s self through that the well- known one at Lost River pales into insignifi- cance beside it. All this, which is so brief in the telling, took a full hour to do, for besides these special stunts there was the working of one’s way in and out of the other dark caves over slippery rocks, and the climbing of many ladders. Besides the rock figures which I have men- tioned, were several others- two heads of dogs and one of a sheep, and as we left the caves, at the top of the cliff a full-length figure of a soldier. These were all as amazingly real as the Old Man of the Mountains, or the Indian Chief or the Martha Washington head at Dix- ville Notch. Our guide proposed that we climb the seven- hundred foot cliff up almost perpendicular lad- ders as a pleasant addition to our cave experi- ence, but we said: “Another day and another summer.” FLAYERS’ CLUB Friday, October 2, saw the inauguration of the fourth active season of the Somerville High School Players’ Club under the leadership of Miss Harriet Bell. The meeting was comprised of club business and a discussion of the first play to be presented this year. The club has been the recipient of many interesting dona- tions, which include a framed group of auto- graphs of the “Saint Joan” Company and a pro- gram of plays produced at the Boston Museum in 1866. Also a portrait copy of Mrs. Siddons, presented through the courtesy of Mrs. Top- liff. For the benefit of members, Miss Bell has furnished the club with a small library com- posed of books dealing with plays and play producing and current issues of the Theatre Magazine. The destinies of the Players’ Club are to be guided this year by the co-operative efforts of the new officers: President, Alden Edkins; vice- president, Pauline Baptista; secretary, Grace Sullivan: treasurer, J. Miles White; librarian,. Frances Hanson. Grace Sullivan, Secretary. IPSAS'

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10 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR Poor People George Clarke, P. G. “Yes, said Mrs. Murphy as she eased her elbows to a more comfortable position on the back fence. “It’s toim we got a little swell. We arn’t down and outers even if we don’t live in such an illigant neighborhood.” “Oh, it’s illigant enough for me aven if I don’t kape a tin rattle in me back yard,” re- joined her neighbor, Mrs. Dugan, “and I warn yer, Kate, that it won’t be long before you’ll be good and glad to get rid of that thing if yer can. Poor people like us cain’t afford to kape cars.” “Poor people!” That galled Kate Murphy. Hadn’t she and Jim two hundred dollars in the bank, and wasn’t Jim getting thirty dollars a week working in the boiler factory? Poor people! She wasn’t going to stand for that; so she thrust her nose in the air and walked like a duchess up the back steps and into the house, leaving Mrs. Dugan leaning on the fence, apparently very well satisfied with her ideas on domestic economy. The cause of all this unpleasant conversation lay in front of the rather dilapidated tenement house in which the Murphys resided. Jim Mur- phy had purchased it the day before for the stupendous sum of fifty dollars; and .so far it had at least steadily, if not noiselessly, con- sented to go. Though it well matched the house in appearance, it took the proportions of a limousine in the eyes of the Murphys. At any rate they seemed to be determined to make the most of it, for it soon became a most familiar object on the street; so familiar in fact that the neighboring housewives forgot to rush to their respective windows when a weird mixture of squeaks, rattles, and honks heralded the fact that the Murphys were starting out on an adventure. The children darted back and forth in front of it, as if through long acquain- tance they had lost all fear of being harmed by this four-wheeled monster. In such a manner things continued for the space of a month, in which time Mrs. Dugan saw little of Kate Murphy. One fine Monday, however, both good ladies happened to be busied in the same occupation at the very same time, that of hanging out the family wash. At first they did not seem to be aware of one another, but Mrs. Dugan, noticing a dejected atmosphere hanging about her former friend, could not resist from conversation. “And how be yer, Kate, this foin day?” she called out. Kate, who was occupied at suspending a stocking by the toe, gave a start, then put her hands on her hips and gazed fixedly but not angrily for a full minute at the surprised Mrs. Dugan, following which she suddenly burst into tears. “Why, dearie, what’s the matter?” condoled Mrs. Dugan as she hurried into the Murphy yard, “has somebody died in the family or has jist Jim been batin’ yer?” “Shure, it’s matter enough,” sobbed Kate, “we’re all headed for the poor house—Jim’s went and spint every blessed cint we have on that auld piece of junk and—and—and now he says we’ad better get—t—t rid of it!” and here she burst into a flood of tears. Mrs. Dugan, as if crying were contagious, was herself choking, but she managed to an- swer Kate in a comforting voice. “Now dearie, don’t take it so hard,” she al- most whispered, “it isn’t like you wasn’t warned beforehand, and you’ll be much better off without that no-good thang, but—,” and here her voice changed, “if Jim wants to sell it real bad, maybe my man might buy it, be- cause he was jist sayin’ yesterday that we couldn’t hope to kape in with the swells any longer if we didn’t have a car, and Pat’s al- ways right.” The pupils of Somerville High School extend their sympathy to MR. CHARLES S. CLARK in his recent bereavement.

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12 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR On the poetry page this year we hope to set before our readers many good poems which are worthy of attention and which will make this section one to look forward to each month. We expect many new contributors. “Clouds,” by John Pierce, is beautiful for the picture which it unfolds. “Ego,” by Monica Cotter, is an example of free verse in an un- usual style. Beatrice Bates’ poem, “Come Away!” with its natural appeal, and “Where the Poplars Kiss the Sky,” with its colorful imagination, are in direct contrast to one an- other. Francis McCarthy. WHERE THE POPLARS KISS THE SKY I will meet you bye and bye Where the poplars kiss the sky. We shall be alone again Far from hastening hordes of men, Men who grasp and turn and go Leaving blood-stains on the snow— Men who lie and steal and hate Crushing love-bands in their wake. We shall see God’s tender solace Written in dear Nature’s face. It may be hard to wait, I know, For the years creep, oh, so slow And you—you have gone before! But I will meet you bye and bye Where the poplars kiss the sky. Beatrice O. Bates, 1926 COME AWAY! Come away from city streets, From the toil and pain and anguish Of a million struggling men, Slaving yesterday, today, ever and again. Come to where the blue lake sparkles, Come to where the sunshine calls As it falls upon the waters And blinks upward at the blue! Come awav from citv streets. E’er the chains and bits and halters Of a million struggling men, Slaving yesterday, today, ever and again, Grip you with their craving fingers And you lose the game. Oh, come away! away! away! Come to where the blue lake sparkles! Come to where the sunshine calls As it falls upon the waters And blinks upward at the blue. Beatrice 0. Bates, 1926. EGO “What is this self of mine?” I ask. I know it not. Yet others know it. And I know the ego of others. Strange, oh, so strange! It seems to me. Still, I know not why. A something not to me as others are. Has it the faults I so readily detect in others? Has it any of the charms, the attractions? I know not. No mirror can reflect this self to us, No words of others tell us true The barefaced facts of what we are. Who can tell me why The one I know most I know least? Ah! God, God alone, can tell us true Of the Ego, the soul, so deep within the self. We mortals cannot see. And this God, so mighty, so strange Wills not so, until his own time When each shall know his own true naked Ego. Monica Cotter. CLOUDS O’er yon dusky pine tree’s lofty head, Above the bank of leaden hued mist, Upon the crags themselves they seem to tread, Clouds with hill-tops haste to keep their tryst. Clouds, gleaming snow-white ’gainst the blue Billowing mystic shapes for our delight, Gliding past our gaze as if they knew Their glory showed our great Creator’s might. John E. Pierce, 1927.