Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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10 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR many different styles and colors. Each clan has five wholly different tartans; one called the chief, worn only by the chief and his heirs; an- other, the clan, worn as an everyday costume; a third, the dress, worn at gay ceremonies and festivities; another, the mourning, worn by the family for twelve months after a death; last, the hunting, usually of a dark or greenish hue. To cover the upper part of his body, the Scot wears a tunic, and carries his plaid over his right arm. Everybody seems to think that the furry-article hanging in front of the kilt is just an ornament, it is called a sporran and is a large purse or pouch of skin covered with fur or hair. The Scotchman uses his sporran for much the same purpose as the American ladies use their pocketbooks. In it he carries everything he wants to take with him, for he has only two pockets in his tunic. One of the oldest, proudest, best known, and most honorable of the Highland clans is Mac- Leod of MacLeod. They can be traced far back of the year 900 A. I). The head of the clan resides in the stately castle of Dunvegan, on the beautiful quaint Isle of Skye. It is about the only castle in Scotland that has stayed in the same family line and name since it was built. Like other fortresses of feudal times, Dunvegan Castle was constructed for stability. The walls in the older section are solid mason- ry, fourteen feet thick. Can you imagine such walls in our modern houses and apartments? The Scots of several centuries ago were very superstitious. On Skye a legend has been handed down about the witch, who wished evil for the whole MacLeod clan. Finally she was caught and put in a strong box in the dungeon of Dunvegan Castle. The clan believed that if she ever escaped, catastrophe would fall on the entire MacLeod family. So many other tales of this nature could be told, that you would not be able to enumerate them. The later Scotch are an excellent type of pioneer. A noted American historian wrote: “I can follow the path the Scottish people took from the Atlantic to the Pacific in the United States. Where they made settlements, there was prosperity, and they became a more de- pendable type of citizens than the immigrants of any other country.” Of course, people who were born, or whose ancestors were born in other countries, would naturally resent that statement. I would not blame them in the least, for I believe that everyone should be loyal to his own country, but as for me, I say: “Long live Scotland.” What Mr. Avery said to the Sophomores at their first assembly might well be taken to heart by every- one: “Be kindly disposed toward your neighbor and mind your own business.” FACES AND MASKS By Stanley B. Howard, '31 HAVE you ever noticed, in the subway, on the street, or anywhere, the difference between the various faces which you encounter? I assure you it is a very interest- ing way in which to pass time. Smiling, scowl- ing, laughing, they pass by, the cinema of life. Hew true it is, that a person’s face is often the mirror of his soul, telling to the world just what is going on inside. You cannot truly be angry and smile at the same time. It is almost a physical as well as a mental impossibility. When one is “sore,” to use the common expression, it is only the well controlled person who can conceal his ire and keep it from coming out in his face or eyes. We are all emotional in a sense; i. e.; at cer- tain times we are angry, at other times sad, and often happy. It is the lot of man to be thus. But in sane people this trait is more marked than in others. And it follows that this same emotional being should possess a physi- ognomy corresponding to his character. You have surely seen people who can smile one moment, frown the next, and cry in the third. The features of such a person are always work- ing, that is to say, they are never quiet. It is often true that this person may be of a shal- low, artificial character, without stability. The face which always has a smile upon it is also common. We are certain to judge the owner as a person with an amiable disposition. The opposite feeling to this is incited by the eternally gloomy, frowning face. We imme- diately put it down as being the possession of a grouch or a boor, and avoid the person as much as possible. So much for the emotional face. But there is another type which you have perhaps run across. Some people’s faces seem to conceal their feelings as if by a mask. A face which seldom smiles, yet is not gloomv, a face that seldom frowns, and yet is not cheerful. This sometimes covers a rather imperturbable per- son inclined to be reserved and to remain apart from others, or the owner may be just plain “dumb” as we often say, or may be, though rarely, a person with a force of character which could not be obtained in any other way. If you have ever watched a poker game, you must have noticed that the consistent winners were usually those who could hold a full house and keep their faces straight. This is often a val- uable asset in other ways, for to be able to con- ceal one’s feelings from another is often the best sort of tact. Many people’s faces become lined at an early age. We are apt to conclude that such a per- son has had more than his share of hard luck.

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SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR 9 over to the window. When Carter saw Wilde he turned on his heel and walked out. Dono- van turned to Wilde, “I didn’t know that you drew the line as close as that with the help,” he said. ‘‘I won’t shake hands with a yellow coward such as he,” Wilde retorted angrily. Then Donovan wanted to knew what the mat- ter was. “It’s a long story,” Wilde replied. ‘‘Way back in 1916 when we were over across we had a wonderful aviator called “Ace” Carter. He ranked pretty high in our air circus and Meul- ler was about his equal in the German ranks. One day a small Albatros appeared over the airdrome in France. Immediately two of our planes took off after it. He didn’t wait long, only long enough to drop a note wrapped up in a handkerchief and weighed down with a spare sparkplug. The gist of it was that he wished to meet Carter in single combat at a certain place the next day at noon. We knew that Carter would win because he could fly a Spad as she never had been flown before. One of the boys found Carter and gave him the note. When he read it and saw the signature he started and turned white, but he said: “Sure, I’ll go.” That night I heard him tossing rest- lessly on his cot. The next morning he was still white and shook as if he had the ague. “When the boys asked him if he was sick, he replied that he was only nervous. Towards noon they tuned up his motor and put fresh cartridge belts in his Lewis gun, and when all was ready he took off as if on a test flight. He headed south towards Paris and we never saw him again. Wentworth, the next best in our squadron, agreed to go in his place. ‘No one would know the difference,’ he declared, so we let him go. Then some of us hurried to the appointed spot to see the fight. It was the worst dog-fight I ever saw and I have seen plenty. 1 thought Wentworth had him where he wanted him once or twice, but suddenly the German banked sharply and raked our ship with lead. The plane quivered, went into a spin and crashed. Meuller dived after the plane and when he was over the burning wreck he dropped a small wreath on it, thinking it was Carter.” Donovan broke in, “Why couldn’t we question him and find his motive for leaving so sud- denly ?” “He isn’t worth the questioning,” Wilde re- plied angrily. The matter was dropped, and Carter went on flying. Late in January, Mr. Wilde went on a hunting trip in Maine where he was taken seri- ously ill with appendicitis. The news came to the airport through his daughter. She went to Carter and begged him to go and save her father’s life as no doctor could get to him. He refused to go at first, but after her pleading, finally agreed. A teriffic storm was raging out- side but the mechanics tuned up a big Bellanca. After some trouble with the storm Carter finally took off and after a hard trip managed to get Wilde back in time to save his life. Some weeks later Donovan persuaded Carter to go with him to see Wilde who was still in the hospital. After a whispered consultation with Donovan, Wilde said: “Can you give any reason for deserting under fire as you did in France?” “Who cares?” replied Carter wearily, “I guess I know what everybody thinks of me.” But Wilde was insistent, so Carter began: “My mother was an Amercian. When she was in Germany studying music she met a German baron. Later she was married and lived in Ger- many where my brother and I were born. When the war broke out we had the choice of going back to America with my mother or remaining in Germany. My brother stayed but I came to America and enlisted under my mother’s maiden name to avoid suspicion. When I heard of this great ace I wasn’t sure, but when I saw his handwriting that clinched it; he was my brother. You see my father’s name was Baron Heinrich von Meuller.” Wilde interrupted: “You didn’t desert,” he said: “You were just acting under orders from Higher Up!” SO SAYS A SCOTCHMAN By Fenwick MacLeod, ’31 MOST of us have only a vague idea of what Scotland really is. We hear tales about the Highlands and Borderlands. Of these two sections, the former is perhaps the better known for its exploits. Robert Bruce, Rob Roy, Bonnie Prince Charlie, and Macbeth all stand out as famous characters in history and folk lore. We enjoy listening to the ro- mantic adventures of the Scotch, and we point with pride to the honorable, noble, and upright men produced by this country. The Scottish Highlanders are the remnant of the hardy Celtic race which remained un- touched by the Roman, Saxon, and Danish con- quests. They are thrifty and cautious, but the facts do not bear out the inference of avarice usually attributed to them by people who know nothing of the kindly hospitable Scots. Ignorant people laugh at and ridicule the kilts worn by the Highlanders. That custom of dress, however, is far more than three times as old as New England. The kilt is a short plaited skirt hanging from the waist to the knees, usually made of the tartan, or plaid, of the per- son’s clan. A tartan or plaid is a checkered piece of cloth made from the wool of the High- land or Cotswold sheep, and is patterned in

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SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR 11 Nevertheless, the man who concentrates deeply on problems of engineering and the like is of- ten the possessor of a prematurely old face. There is nothing like privation in one way or another, however, to bring on wrinkles. This causes the well-known remark: “How old she looks.” Yet the object of the criticism may be a person who is young in body and mind. Just as a dominating personality may lead the mob, so may a face be of the greatest im- portance in associating with people. If, for example, you are applying for a job, and you have a clean, smiling face, your chances are many times better than they would be if your features were drawn into a frown. A smiling, pleasant face is a valuable asset even if on.. has no claim to beauty. I do not mean by this that beauty is not to be desired, but merely that if you keep a smile on your face and by so doing reflect an amiable disposition, you are bound to make a good impression on those with whom you come in contact. ADVENTURES OF A CARAVAN By Julia Saparoflf, 32 THE caravan wended its way through the jungle. It consisted of four huge ele- phants carrying equipment, and five ethers which carried on their backs large litters that could each easily seat five people. The seats were all deserted except one which was occupied by a sullen, fierce-looking man. He was of medium height and powerful build. He had even features, a bushy mustache, heavy eyebrows, black eyes, and straight black hair. He was gazing at twenty-five persons exploring the ground. They were adapting their pace to the elephants’ leisurely walk. He regarded them all with hatred, but every time he looked at four side by side, he frowned dreadfully. The four especial objects of his wrath were a lithe girl, a tall boy, her brother, a still taller man, the father, and a third man, Norman Luce. After quite a long time, a cry arose, and the caravan came to a stop in a large clearing. “We stop here for a couple of days. We need the rest after this week’s hard traveling,” an- nounced the father, Mr. Evans, who was in charge. Immediately, everyone except our sullen ac- quaintance set to work to erect two cabins — one for general use, the other for the exclu- sive use of the Evanses. When they had been made, the elephants were fed and corralled. After all the work had been completed, the boy crossed to his sister, and, flinging himself down beside her in front of their cabin, exclaimed, “Gee, it’s hot, Betty.” “I know, Bob. It must be 110.” “Too bad Norman Luce had to get lost. And in such a place. He would!” “Well, he’s a—what you call a—a naturalist. He wanted to collect information about the jungle life—” “Information — bah!” interrupted her brother. “The fact is that, on his account, here we are a couple of thousand miles from nowhere.” “From Algeria,” corrected Betty. “Oh, well! Only four hundred miles (making ten a day) from that little town where we pur- chased the elephants. We might be at home—” “Well, he’s found, and we’re almost safe.” “Safe! Did my ears deceive me? Safe in a jungle! For safety, all animals should be killed. ’Sides Dad is far too gentle, forbidding any beasts to be killed except in absolute neces- sity. You didn’t feel so very safe when those horrible shrieks of rage from the negroes were heard.” “Just because we were sitting on a heathen god, a Sphinx,” laughed Betty. “Such a sacrilege! It was lucky for us they worshipped it for an hour, during which time no one could be captured or killed. Norman was among them as friendly as could be. But he escaped with us.” “There’s Norman’s foster-brother, Alvan Swagger. You might know they weren’t real relatives. He hates Norman ’cause they both got an equal share of the parent’s fortune. Alvan wanted the lion’s share. He hates us because we favor Norman, and also because he tried to steal our valuables, and was prevented. I don’t like him. Oh, Bob. Are you going?” “Must. Work to do. Bye.” He walked across the clearing into the other cabin. No one was in sight except “the man who always had the sulks.” Alvan passed with the agreeable remark: “Tell your dad I’m going to kill all animals I see. I want pelts and money.” Just then the howl of a tiger came from the jungle. He turned pale and hastened off to pick up