Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR i An English friend next showed hers. “50 cents for the English lady,” said our officer, smiling more broadly than at first as though appre- ciating his joke. “That isn’t fair,” we protested. “Oh! yes,” he replied, “America rich. Americans pay!” And we did. But we must not condemn this bit of European re- taliation too harshly. The landing-tax, the high prices in general of the passports in Europe followed in natural sequence the price of the passport in this country. In war, passports are necessary, but not in peace. Our government, however, still obliges every citizen who wishes to leave this country for foreign shores to pay $10.00 for his passport. In 1921 France asked $5.00 and Great Britain $2.50, but very soon they followed the United State$ and raised the price to $10.00, and Italy, without much delay, did the same. More and more American travelers are questioning the justice of this law, but if some revenue is neces- sary, why shouldn’t the United States as the richest nation on earth be the first to lower the rates? It is safe to say that other nations would soon follow suit. Now just a few words about our stay on land. First there is Venice, Venice with its wonderful square of St. Mark’s; with its beautiful buildings on three sides —stately, though only two stories in height—and the glorious church of St. Mark’s on the other, flashing and gleaming with the beauty of its mosaics at all hours of the day; the fascinating shops in the ar- cades, the restaurants, especially Florian’s, over- flowing into the square itself. “Will Florian’s be open this evening at 12?” asked a visiting American. “Sir,” said the waiter proudly, “Florian’s has not been closed for six hundred years!” This was before the Great War. During the war it was closed on account of the Austrian bombs, one of them falling within a few feet of the entrance of St. Mark’s, diag- nally across the square from Florian’s. And Flor- ence—the Florence of Dante, Boccaccio, and Savon- arola with its lovely paintings, its beautiful statuary and magnificent old palaces. And then the lakes. Lake Garda, Lake Como, Lake Lugano and Lake Maggiore. Catullus lived on the shores of Lake Garda and Vergil in one of his books speaks of its wintry winds, but in one secluded section the high moun- tains shut off the cold winds, the sun shines warmly and the orange and lemon trees flourish; all of which makes it a favorite winter resort and has given rise to the name, “Italian Riviera.” Maggiore, lovely and friendly, with shores not as wildly beautiful as those of Garda, fur- nishes the Milanese gentry with the most de- lightful of playgrounds. Of them all, however. Lake Como is the most alluring. Who can de- scribe the depth of the blue of its waters! Who can paint its sunrise beauty or that of a moonlight eve- ning! And Bellagio, situated at the junction where one branch of the lake stretches off toward Lecco, is a kind of earthly Paradise to most Americans. Never was any little Italian hamlet so captivating as the little village of Bellagio. Never were hills so pro- tectingly kind as those about this same little village. Wooded from summit to base, their reflections in the clear waters of the lake double its beauty. It is generally conceded here in this country that a native of California considers and honestly believes that much of the beauty of the world lies within the boundaries of his own state. As we went on board the little boat which was to take us across the lake to the railway station, a gentleman from California turned to take one last look at the little village sleeping in the sunshine. With a dramatic wave of his hand which included in its radius village, lake and mountains he exclaimed: “You can’t beat that!” We heartily endorsed his words! SHORT STORY CLUB The Short Story Group of the Literary Club held its first meeting of the year October 6, 1926. A com- mittee of three, Ruth Garrod, Winifred Hurley and Ruth Sibley, were elected to furnish entertainment for the next meeting. The meetings will be held the third Wednesday of the month in Room 201. The present twenty-two members urge that you attend, as the club promises many interesting programs in the future. The officers for this year are: Margaret Lacey, chairman; Ruth Hodges, secretary. THE PLAYWRITING GROUP The Play writing branch of the Literary Club held its first meeting of the year on October 0, 192G. The faculty members this year are the Misses Boole, Elli- son and Smith. Elections were held with the following results: Chairman, Rebecca Kcnnard, and the commit- tee consisting of Elliot Hall, Sylvia Brown and Doro- thy Leeman. Meetings are to be held the second Wednesday in the month.

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8 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR A Cruise in Southern Waters By Lucy I. ToplifF T wasn’t altogether a cruise, for we had a month on land, hut there was a month of sea; nothing but sea with social calls by the way along fascinating shores. It came about like this. Some one said: “Why don’t you take the Mediter- ranean and Adriatic cruise?” The advice, if it could be called that, sounded far more agreeable than advice usually does, so we followed it and on June 23rd left Boston on the steamship Martha Washington, the Cosu- lich-Italian line, for southern Italy and the Dalma- tion Coast. That night it rained. It rained the next day. In fact for seven days there was nothing but grayness, tog and cloud, the Atlantic behaving in a most unseemly way. The management, however, as if trying to make up for the weather, provided a varied entertainment. There were orchestral concerts, morn- ing and evening, for the Italians take their music with them when they go to sea. The programs were of high order, although there was always one number which appealed to the popular liking for jazz. Did they think it would be particularly agreeable to the Americans? Was that why it was inserted? I won- dered. Then there were “movies” every night. Danc- ing for those who danced; “bridge” for those who played, and the most wonderful things to eat—for those who were not seasick! So the week passed and one morning we awoke to the blue skies and the blue waters of the Mediterra- anean; to St. Michael’s in the Azores. Next we stopped at Lisbon, and then Naples. But it was only after we had left Naples that everything was new and so, correspondingly, interesting. All day we sailed south, bearing a little toward the east in the direc- tion of the Messina Straits. Stromboli, where Aeolus of old guarded the cave of the Winds, sent out and aup J'ork-like tongues of flame, and as Vesuvius, since It blew its cap off, is content seemingly with a wisp «of smoke for head covering, we were glad that there was one volcano that was living up to its reputation, especially as no harm was being done. So all the af- ternoon we sailed on, and the hills and mountains on the islands changed from gold to rose and gray and then purple and the sun dropped behind the rim of the sea to the other side of the world. At twilight we entered the straits, passing between Scylla and Charybdis the rocks and the whirlpool which caused the ancients such terror. But they have been tamed by modern science; the rocks, wholly done away with; and as for the whirlpool, I am positively sure that only sailors and ardent lovers of the classics on the lookout for ancient landmarks, if a whirlpool may be classed as a landmark, would ever detect any un- usual turbulence of the waters. Reggio in southern Italy and Messina in Sicily confront one another across the strait, and a ferry boat will take you from one to the other in about twenty minutes. The world has traveled a long way since the days of Vergil! When morning came we were well on our way to Pa- tras in Greece—sailing in and out among the Ionian Islands, barren rocks flushed with rose of the most beautiful hues and tints, so many of them. We saw Ithaca, that is, we looked hard at two islands about which the wisest scholars differ as to which one was the home of Ulysses. But we were safe either way as we saw both, and we feel much better acquainted with Ulysses at any rate. By mid-afternoon we were anchored at Patras with Missolonghi, where Byron died when helping the Greeks gain their independ- ence, just across the Gulf of Patras. Was it hot? It most certainly was; hot to the nth degree! But that was not the reason why we did not go ashore. Patras, although the second largest city in Greece, is not modern in its sanitation and every once in awhile there is a rumor of “The Plague,” but some charming English people who live there told us that they had never known of an epidemic, and were never in fear of it. However, only those whose destination was Patras were allowed to land, while the rest of us from the ship watched the town wake from its long mid- day siesta; watched while one table in the open square blossomed out with a white cloth; then another and another. Men, women and children appeared as if by magic, eating, drinking, laughing and talking; the usual closing of the day which looked to us so much like a festival. Ragusa in Jugo-Slavia was our next port-of-call, and when you enter the Old Town you feel as though you had stepped backward into the Middle Ages. There is the frowning fortress with its massive ram- parts and bastions; there, the streets that are stair- ways and there, the encircling walls. We were for- tunate in seeing the people gather in the square for their evening promenade, and the band played and the lights gleamed on the Venetian facades of the picturesque old buildings—for Venice at one time was the over-lord of this same little town—and we half- dreamed we were living in the long-ago. A flaring light gleams forth, throwing in clear re- lief the faces and dress of a group of girls approach- ing us. We look eagerly, expecting something quaint and individual in costume. We look again. Surely our eyes deceived us. But no! Each girl has “bobbed” hair; each wears short skirts, flesh-colored stockings and “pumps.” Laughing in spite of our disappoint- ment, we went back to the ship to learn that Ragusa New Town was and is a favorite summer resort for the French as well as Italians and Austrians, which accounts, perhaps, for the modern dress. But the Jugo-Slavians are quite- alert along other lines than dress, we discovered. When we landed we were asked to show our passports. “Ah, yes. Americans. $1.00 each, please,” said the smiling official, who spoke Eng- lish remarkably well.

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10 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR Dad’s Ken By Alice Dunlap STRONG, DEEP BOND of affection gen- erally exists in a family that has been early deprived of a mother. This was undeniably true in the case of Lawrence, Chester, Kenneth and me. Dad lavished an unusual and companionable affection on all his children, but for Ken his devotion was some- thing like worship. He was the odd one in appear- ance. Dark-eyed and with golden-brown hair, Ken was distinctly noticeable among the rest of us Wat- sons who had blue eyes and brown or black hair. He had mother’s coloring and many of her little manner- isms which endeared him more and more to Dad. There was only one quality in the boys with which Dad could not sympathize—their love of the sea that they had inherited from mother’s people, who were all seafaring. Father had an intense distrust and hatred of the water, but to the boys it was the very breath of life. Ever since they had been old enough to pat a ship’s cat they had gone on short cruises along the coast with Captain Neely. They would come back brown, wind-hardened and enthusiastic. For weeks their talk would be tinged with nautical expressions. It was on rare occasions that Dad would permit Kelt out of his sight; perhaps that was why the longing, unsatisfied as it was, burned deeper in him than in the others. Often he would go down to the little salt- rotted, wave-washed wharf and gaze far out to where the water and sky met, craving for the sway of a boat on angry waters and a vicious Nor’easter bat- tling against the courageous craft. He would shove his hands deep into his pockets and throw back his head, his hair blowing on the wind, his eyes closed in ecstacy. He would come back to reality and dis- pondently turn back home, his eyes wistful with long- ing. The boys stamped back from the fields one day bursting with news that George LeBlanc had com- pleted his two vessels and was ready to start for a two-years’ cruise. Ken’s eyes were lit with more than usual determination and fire. The three grouped around the table and talked, seriously intent. The last rays of the sun slanted calmly through the small-paned windows and lay across the floor, partly brightening Dad’s rocker. The quaint little clock on the shelf ticked plainly and in- dependently above the drone of the boys’ voices. Only once or twice did I hear Ken’s voice; for the most part he sat with his head in his hand, his fingers tunning restlessly through his wavy hair. Though they had, out of consideration, been careful not to let the drift of their conversation reach my ears, I could not but know what was foremost in their minds. I moved about the room preparing supper. The pies came out of the oven well-browned, filling the air with their tantalizing, spicy odor. The boys stopped their con- sultation long enough to sniff the air and smile ap- preciatively. When we were seated for our evening meal, Law- rence, our capable oldest brother, spoke to father, a little hesitant, his eyes turned from Ken’s lowered ones. “Dad, being as we are,” he smiled, “we can’t see two perfectly good boats set sail and not take ad- vantage of them, but there’s work here to be done, so we've decided that only one of us at a time can go.” Dad arose and went to the sink, pretending to re- fill his glass, though he had not so much as touched the water already in it. His back was turned to us and Lawrence waited, expecting him to return to his place, but Dad still stood there, his old abhorrence of the sea swelling up in him. The pump emitted the last plaintive squeak and all at once Dad spoke gruffly:— “Go on, say what you’ve got to.” His voice was hard with constrained emotion. Chester picked up the thread of the explanation where Lawrence had left it hanging. “The farm depends on Lawrence more than on Ken or me—” He stopped as though considering how he should best go on. Dad remained motionless. “And Ken’s the youngest, of course,” continued Chester as though th it were all that need be said, for we all knew it was not Ken’s youth that opposed his going, but Dad. “So,” Chet went on trying not to make his joy too evident, “I’m to be the sailor.” Dad sat down and passed his hand over his eyes wearily. The rest of the evening was heavy with silence. In the days that followed, the preparation for the long voyage of the “Madelon” took much of Chet’s time, but he, with the others, tried to keep things in a state of happy normalcy. Chester, who was born with an entertaining gift for mimicry, imitated everything and everybody he ever saw. He outdid himself in the effort to make Dad’s outlook brighter. “Well, Pop,” he said eagerly, “went down to the courthouse today with George about some legal mat- ters and we heard a couple of cases. Gee, it was rich. Old Mrs. Keyes was there, arguing with all and sundry. It seems last month she went to her church bazaar. She parked her horse and buggy be- tween Sam Gcrrish’s flivver and Jo Emmons’ hay cart and went inside. Lew Harris was supposed to look af- ter the horses, but when it got hot he turned them out where it was shady in the sorrel field by the town- hall. That night Mrs. Keyes’ mare had colic and turned up her toes and died. She vowed the sorrel had given her horse the colic, and wanted money to pay for her loss. Lew Harris argued that the sor-