Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR 5 LETTERS FROM THE ORIENT By Francis X. Rooney Ateneo de Manila, Philippine Islands. July 14, 1928. My dear Jack: No, I am not dead! I’m still alive, but thir- teen thousand miles away! My letters must take one whole month to reach you by way of Japan and China, so please be patient. I am on the other side of the world! Just one month ago today our liner crept into the dock at Manila. You know how I used to dream of visiting the tropics, and that day my dream came true. What a greeting we re- ceived. The graceful palms waved a welcome; the sun smiled; the blue sky smiled; the brown natives smiled — and let me tell you, Jack, I smiled too! So here I am at last in the Philip- pines ! Jack, it’s fascinating here. Things are so different that it is like another world. It is an- other world, or rather, it is two worlds in one. The strangest thing of all seems to be how modern and ancient ideas go hand in hand. Here, Mr. 1928 walks down the street with Miss 1828! Just to give you an example of what I mean, yesterday we rode out in our new Buick. That’s modern, isn’t it? But wait. We drove along the main street and lo — we were held up by a lumbering ox-cart, the native driver sitting nonchalantly, cross-legged, on his ancient vehicle! Five minutes later, speeding along the modern, cement road, we had to stop and wait for two huge sows to waddle off the road. They were enjoying a sun bath on the hot cement! But the most ludicrous was yet to come. A few minutes later our horn sent a herd of fifteen goats jumping and scampering across a field! Talk about sights! All this, remember, is right in Manila, a city of 300,000 people. You know I am teaching at the Ateneo High School, founded by the Spaniards fifty years ago. Our building crouches behind the famous Spanish fortifications, for we are just within the ancient walled city, or, Intra-Muros, as it is called. To live here is to be transported back into the Middle Ages. Middle Ages? Yes, for just outside our school is the wall and moat built by the Spaniards. Every house here is a fort, its first story a three-foot wall of solid concrete pierced by heavily barred windows. Even now the high doors are swung closed every night, the heavy iron bars dropped be- hind them — and we are secure! My room is on a kind of balcony, and under- neath my window is — well, the Orient. Right below me are the Chinese stores, their owners squatting outside on the sidewalk, gibbering away in their mysterious tongue and tones. Half-naked children play in the street; chick- ens pick their dinner beneath our Buick; oxen plod by; native women click along the stone sidewalks in their wooden sandals; an oc- casional piglet darts squealing across the street until captured by his brown, shouting owner. Perhaps you can see now what I mean when I say that I am seeing new and strange sights! And our High School. Eight hundreds boys, most of them boarders. Talk about race mix- tures! Jack, the first day I went to class I hardly knew what to think. There they sat before me, forty-two young men, every one in a neat white duck suit, bow tie, hair slicked and black and white shoes on many! Kuppenhei- mer from head to foot! And the mixture! Twelve Chinese, nine Spaniards, two Siamese, one Russian, ten Filipinos — and the rest mix- tures of these! Jet black hair, slanting eyes, and brown, smiling faces! I tell you, Jack, it was an experience. Do you know what I did? The first holiday I held a class picnic at the beach! Forty of us crowded into autos and away we sped, half an hour later landing at Fasay, a beautiful, tropi- cal beach, ten miles of sand, fringed by grace- ful palms. Talk about fun! We brought enough ice cream for an orphan asylum, and enough sandwiches and cookies for a regiment! We raced. We swam. We wrestled. We built pyramids. We sat under the palms and I told them stories about America — America, their “dream land.” It was a perfect day and we returned home fast friends. But Jack, if my first day in class was a cap- pistol surprise, my first night in the study hall was a bombshell explosion! Of course, in the States a necktie left off is a sign of lack of etiquette. But wait. Just picture my study hall here, open on all sides like a piazza (in the tropics you would smother with mere win- dows). See the eighty desks and chairs, row on row, and my desk at the rear of the room, elevated two feet above the floor! That gives me a birds-eye view of every desk and boy! Well, after supper I heard the hum of voices creep up the stairway, into the dormitory to change clothes and then one by one the boys strolled into the study hall. “Good evening, Mr. Rooney,” smiled the first, and walked to his desk. I looked at him in astonishment. He was in pajamas! In came student number two. I looked at him — be- wildered. He had nothing but a track suit on! And then they all trooped in. Pajamas, track suits, athletic shirts, jerseys — honestly, I’ll never forget that first night. But Jack, in twenty minutes that study hall was as quiet as a church. All that I could see was white and brown, brown arms, brown legs, brown feet, all so distinct again the white shirts. You know when they first came in I thought they were playing a joke on me. But luckily I said nothing. I later learned that that was the

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4 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR Dedication This issue of the Radiator is dedicated, with the best wishes and sincere regard of the staff of 1930-31, to Miss Gatchell. who has been faculty advisor for the past eight years and has been instrumental in making the Radiator the splendid magazine that it is today. CLAYTON ELLIS FROM October 4 to 11, the American Legion celebrated National Convention Week in Somerville and Boston. At that time our •city alone was the host to over six thousand Legionnaires from all parts of the United States. Such a wide-spread and significant •event as this could not help but rouse mem- ories of those fear-ridden years of 1914-1919 and call sharply to mind one man in particular who is revered by the citizens of Somerville and held in honor by the faculty and pupils of Somerville High School — Clayton Carey Ellis. He was a student of this school in the class of 1915. That he was popular with his fel- low classmates and capable in the performance of his duties is evidenced by the fact that for four years he efficiently presided as the presi- dent of his class. In addition, he was prom- inently identified with athletics, playing on the football team every year and, in 1915, acting as its captain. One can safely say that he gave his best to the school and, in exchange, learned some of the most valuable lessons in life by «obeying its regulations and upholding its ideals. When he went to France in 1917, there to un- dertake the hazardous task of driving an ambu- lance, he had four years of excellent training as a background. He could lead, but he could also follow; he could win or lose graciously; and responsibility was no new burden. Needless to say, he gave himself unreservedly in war just as, in High School, he had expended all his energies in successfully representing his class. When, in 1918, he was suddenly called to a higher mission, there passed from this world a young man who might easily have had a brilliant future. I. D. R. SOPHOMORES! THE CLASS OF 1933 seems to have made an excellent beginning this year and has laid a firm foundation for its future work in Somerville High School. Indeed, judging by the statements of the teachers and upper- classmen whom we have interviewed on the subject, the general impression of the Sopho- more Class is quite favorable from the view- point of both the faculty and the student body. The class as a whole seems to have grasped the idea that it is here primarily to secure the best education possible and that this cannot be accomplished unless all work is earnestly and faithfully performed. On this score, Mr. Avery is quoted as having said: “The class was quick to learn the geography of the school. If it shows that same quickness in scholastic- achievement, there will be no failures.” So, Sophomores, see that you live up to the precedent you have established! The managing editor wishes to thank Vincent Maloney, Arthur Kane, Mildred Baxter, Robert Myers, David O’Brien and Helen Robinson for the splendid work they did in securing subscriptions for the Radia- tor. At the time of going to press we understand that Miss Sutherland is seriously ill. May she have a speedy recovery and soon return to our midst.

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6 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR tropical custom. And Jack, listen. It is pretty sensible too. Some hot night, when the air is stifling and when you feel a baby Mississippi trickling down your back, just slip on a pair of light, loose pajamas, put your feet up on your desk, and see how comfortable it is! I know. I’ve tried it! My goodness, Jack, my clock has just called out “eleven o’clock.” And we rise here at four thirty! So I must be getting under my mos- quito netting. I’ll write again soon. Oh, by the way. Next month we are going to take a trip to a part of the islands where the natives are called head hunters. They get their name because of a gentle little custom that they have of cutting off their enemies' heads to keep as souvenirs! If I get back safely, I’ll write. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know that I am “Among Their Souve- nirs.” Sincerely, Frank. Note: This is the first in a series of letters to be written from Manila by the author. A MEMORY By Ruth Morris. ’31 THE SEA is ever fascinating. Smiling treacherously beneath the rays of the sun or angrily roaring in the dark night, still one feels the call. We love the salty tang of a crisp wind; starlit blue sky overhead and a deeper blue below.. But when it’s sullen and angry, then you have the challenge of the sea. One day I stood on the breakwater and watched the last gleams of a watery sun caught and reflected in little whitecaps, racing towards the shore. A wind sighed over the water touching the sails of this boat and that, send- ing them scurrying. In the grey light, they blurred, became indistinct, faded and left the wind, alone on a darkening sea. For a while the wind was content to spurn these waves but then, sent each one higher than its fellow. Until with a suddenly aroused fury, it con- temptuously sent them scattering, shrieking, blowing. Higher and higher they rose, ending with a crashing crescendo near the black shore line which was thrown into relief by the boil- ing, white foam. The foam marked the line of advance and finally edges of it touched the bot- tom of the breakwater and hurriedly retreated. At the same time I felt a spatter of rain, or was it spray flung up by the wind? Re- luctantly I left this black storm-scene to seek the cheerful group around the fireplace within. Later, when I looked out, the storm had sub- sided but a heavy fog prevented me from see- ing the water. Nevertheless I could hear it and went to sleep with the steady roar sounding in my ears. ROBERT BURNS’ BIRTHPLACE By Isabelle Forsyth, ’31 HIS summer, while traveling in Great Brit- 4 ain, I visited Alloway Ayr, the birth- place of Robert Burns, the beloved Scot- tish poet. He was born in 1759 and died in 1796. He endeared himself to all people of Scottish birth by his poems. Two of his most popular poems are “Cotters Saturday Night” and “A Man’s a Man for a’ That.” These poems are read and quoted the world over. His poems, many of which were set to music, are sung by English-speaking people in all lands. “Auld Lang Syne” is almost as popular as a national anthem. I went by bus from Glasgow, a distance of about forty-five miles, to Ayr. The road, after leaving the city of Glasgow, winds through beautiful dairy farm lands, where it reaches the coast at Kilwinning and then goes along the coast until it reaches Ayr. Ayr is a very old historical town but the principal place of interest is the cottage where Burns was born. There are also monuments and memorials here erected in memory of him. I took a street car to Alloway, a part of Ayr. This car took me to the Bridge of Ayr where I got oft'. On the left of this bridge is a park. It is a beautiful walk through the park and along the bank of the River Ayr. At the end of this park is the Auld Brig O’Doon which Burns wrote of in the song, “Ye Banks and Braes O’ Bonnie Doon.” It is indeed a beautiful spot and as I crossed the old bridge which, some say, was originally built by the Romans, I felt I was treading on hallowed ground. Near this bridge is a large monument with beautiful flower gardens sur- rounding it. About half a mile down the road, nearer Ayr, is the cottage. It stands right on the side of the road. The cottage is small, low, and has a thatched roof. The first thing I saw, as I entered was the stable, which is attached to the cottage. It had stalls for two horses at one side and two cows at the end. There were three rooms in the cottage, kitchen, bedroom and sitting room. Everything was wonderfully preserved. In the kitchen there were several pieces of furniture and dishes said to have been used by the Burns family. There is a museum near the cottage. In it I saw many of Burns’ original writings and many letters written him by great men of his time commending his writings. There were also many paintings and pictures depicting scenes in his writings. I spent a splendid day at Ayr. It is a town which will always stand out in my memory as one of the most interesting towns I have ever visited.