South Paris High School - Chronicle Yearbook (South Paris, ME)

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COUNTRY SCENE The stars twinkle in the sky. In the bitter cold they look like small diamonds piercing through the dark blanket of the heavens. The golden moon touches the treetops, and its silver light makes grotesque shadows on the pale blue and white snow. The wind tugs at a snowbank and a swirl of snow dances across the field. It flounces over a drift and slowly disintegrates. ln a distance a small red farmhouse lies be- tween two snow-covered hills, a ruddy face peeking over the white fields. Small icicles hang from the roof of the farm- house. They sparkle brilliantly in the golden moonlight like crystal chandeliers in brightly lit dining rooms. In a few hours the sun will rise, taking away all the quiet, somber beauty of the night, and will replace it with the hustle-bustle bright busi- ness of day. Sandra Smith-'59 PEACE ON EARTH! He, peering up through the thick, black still- ness of night, fixed his gaze on the heavens above. With the moon sending its glowing radiance dawn upon his upturned face, a weird and fascinating picture forms in my mind. His shining hair framed a gentle, troubled face like a halo and the long silver strands fall softly upon his slightly slumped shoulders. With the absence of all hate and wrong from his frail body he stands illuminated in the still of the night against the cold, unfriendly world. But something -some one thing present in the soul of this man gives to him the added strength he needs to fulfill his duty. Standing on the hill, he opens his arms-wide to envelope the valleys below and the heavens above. Embedded in his soul is the love and faith that fills the night air with its intense stillness. The night breeze whips thoughtfully at the folds of his gown which softly encircles him as it falls gracefully to rest on the velvet carpet of nature. For the faith of his people, for peace, for love, for understanding, for forgiveness, for equality, this troubled man standing there on the hill, scans the depths of the heavens above, with words of prayer silently uttered as he searches for help and guidance. Wendy Sue Thompson-'60 THE STUDENT BUS The student bus is the noisiest place in the world! There may be no cannon tire or ex- ploding bombs, but thirty members of the fair sex all trying to sing a different song louder than anyone else creates more strain on the male eardrum than any chemical blast. It takes a loy- ous, predominantly female group to reveal the true inner emotions which are pent up during the school week. The quietest, best mannered girl in the class suddenly changes into a screaming shrew shouting Short Shorts at the top of her lungs in two sharps while her neighbor tries to keep up in three flats. Those ants must get very tired of marching all those miles iust to get out of the rain and Harry has been carried to the ferryboat so many times that he should get cut rate. I believe radios should be installed in all buses going to basketball games in order to keep the future soloists of the Northeasters on key, and the boys on their rockers. Moral: Next time take the train. John Simpson-'59 NAlLS Painted fingernails used to be the mark of the abandoned woman, but they have come a long way in a single generation and a lot of girls now paint their nails who haven't aban- doned anything except a couple of bucks for the set. The other morning we visited our dental emporium to get our choppers cleaned, and as we reclined in the arms of the female oral hygienist, we were surprised to note that even her nails had been painted. Red as a rich man's barn, they insinuated themselves cleverly into my mouth and we felt that if we should close quickly on them we'd get the sudden taste of lobster. And not long ago we had some blood removed from our arm in a hospital and the nurse who tapped us had blood red nails, as though she had dipped them daintily in our life- stream, as in a fingerbowl. Since there is noth- ing prettier than a pretty hand, we often wonder why women persist in messing themselves up that way-the same sort of impulse, no doubt, that causes some people to desecrate the lovely shell ofa turtle by painting the Statute of Liberty on it .... Suzi Ransley-'59 A thing of Beauty is a ioy forever. - Keats

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.sjfuolenf Sedcfion THE LAST CAST All his life James Turner, I3 years old, had wanted to win a prize in the annual town fishing contest. Now he was standing at the foot of the long deep stretch of water that ran in back of the old farm that was his home. He had tried for three years to land the mon- strous brook trout he knew stayed there. Four times he had hooked him, only to lose him be- cause of faulty tackle. Twice his leader had parted on the first powerful surge of the splendid native. Two other times the hook had straight- ened or pulled out. Now the shadows lengthened as the sun crept nearer to the horizon. The contest officially closed at sunset, and the determined boy had been casting for nearly an hour, landing only two small trout. He had time for only one more cast. The line whipped back and forward as the tiny fly lit delicately on the still surface. Suddenly the world exploded beneath the fly as an arched shape flew out of the water with the fly in its laws. There was no need to strikep the fish had hooked himselfl The boy could only hang on as the fish surged back and forth, cutting through the water like a knife. Time stood still, until finally the rushes became shorter, the jumping less frantic. At last the fish was within arm's distance. A last futile thrashing and he was lifted from the water, drip- ping and gleaming in the waning sunlight. There was no doubt that this fish would win. The boy trembled as he held him up to admire him. Then the boy stooped down and' put him back into the water. Somehow this beautiful fish couldn't be killedl It lay there without moving for over a minute, and then slowly glided out of sight in the quiet water. The sun had set as the boy walked slowly up the path. He glowed inwardly, for he knew that the conquered would live to fight again. Martin Nurmi-'61 LUCKY SEVEN I think that for the most unforgettable day of my life I can draw a circle around the 28th of November in '57, That of course was during the remaining week of deer hunting, and me being an ardent hunter, I took to the woods once more in a desperate but determined effort to conquer the elusive white-tail. Now high on the side of a mountain I was waiting with frozen anticipation as to when the moment would present itself with a tail bouncing down the mountain side. Previously I had exchanged weapons with Dad, since I would have the stand which represented the best long- range shooting visibility. So here I was waiting with .300 Savage in hand and all of six cartridges which Dad said would be ample. Dad trotted off in a circle around the mountain with the l2- gauge shotgun that I had always considered as my own personal deer slayer. Thirty min- utes passed and shortly thereafter opportunity knocked-but loud. There in the estimated dis- tance of 200 yards flew a sizeable doe and a bigger buck, headed on their downward trip on the brow of the adioining ridge. I squeezed off five shots in the course of thirty long seconds with trees running interference for these lightning targets. By the fifth shot the deer became slightly confused as to my where- abouts. The buck took to the mountaintop with the doe heading my way. After breeching my final shell I took a flying shot at the doe, spotted her in the hind quarter, and knocked her around. As she stood there I frantically searched for a single cartridge to clinch my expedition, but my search was fruitless. No more rifle shells were to be found in any one of my I4 pockets. The best I procured were some I2-gauge shotgun shells. The doe stood frigid now, I could see the blood dripping from her hind-quarter which put an- guish in my heart for I would rather shoot and miss completely than be in a situation such as this. Well, we stared at each other for at least five minutes, until finally I threw the rifle on the ground in disgust only to look up and see my ex-prize disappear over the ridge. I tracked the animal but to no avail. Anyway I went home suffering from defeat and humiliation. My heart thumped even heavier when I thought about what Iucky seven could have brought me in- stead of plain ol' turkey on that Thanksgiving of '57I Gary Shute-'59 An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told. - Shakespeare

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CREATION Slowly he arose, caressing with his fingers the instrument which he held so gently-then he stared into space, as though fathoming the unsolvable. A deep glow could be perceived, extending from deep within the soul of one intended to create, and his rangy form assumed a relaxed but attentive position. The whole person was a symbol of gentleness and tranquillity. The mulling crowd grew still, mindful of a general transition of atmosphere. Then the youth caressed his instrument again, pressed it decisively upon his lips, and began to create. He was like an artist, expressing himself in colors - bright colors - those so suggestive of youth, and the vigor with which youth is associated. He was like the poet, who detects a way to place life order. In this way he sent words to the people-in the expression brought forth as a result of impressions upon his mind put there by life. Again, he was the story teller, finding paths into men's souls with adventure. He was the musician-creating! The youth expressed himself with complete animation, giving everyone the same feeling and impression of life that he felt. He explained the adventures of youth through variegated colors, by richness of intonation. The concert hall was unusually warm and glowing, deferring an atmosphere of youthful- ness to the world outside. Now the youth began to play more richly, and flowing-sending forth the softer pastels. He was now portraying the richness and fragrance of life-the re-creation. But, then, a dead silence fell over the hall-a silence so intense that it could be perceived by the ears. The tympany rolled, pealing forth their thunderous pleas, grief stricken. Alarm settled over the audience, the youth's countenance evolved from that of a young man to one of sickening despair and emptiness. The colors which he set forth hung like low, dull clouds, or fog along the back of the black, winding snake which makes its way through London after dark. One could nearly perceive the dampness - see the black reptile - as he walked. The atmosphere' of despair was all- pervading. Then the black outline of the snake became visible, its dark depths-unperceived by the on- looker as he stood on the bank of the Thames. The colors generated by the now grown man were mingled, bright and dark flashed before his eyes as fleeting shadows. Then-there was dead silence. The creation had succumbed, for such is the ultimate end of all creations. The youth slept. It is no matter- Enioy the heavy honey-dew of slumber. Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men, Therefore thou sleep'st so sound . -Shakespeare Matthew MacGown-'59 AFTER DINNER STORY One day three men had the good fortune of riding in an airplane. Unfortunately one fell out. Fortunately there was a haystack below him. Unfortunately there was a pitchfork in the hay- stack. Fortunately he missed the pitchfork. Un- fortunately he missed the haystack. R. Merrill-'59 THE FUTURE OF AMERICA Rock and rollers you say we are, and I say, yes. Crazy teenagers you say we are, and l say, yes. Reckless and blind you call us, and I say, yes. But we are more, We are the future of America, We are the pent up emotion of generations, We are the scorned mixture of personalities, We are the always searching for freedom and new ways, We are the future of America, and through us She shall live. B. Foster-'59 THE SKY The sky outside, so dark, so grey, O'er everything it seems to lay. So dreary and drab, it seems to blind All sense of light, all thought of time. Its murky depths sink slowly down To trap our soul against the ground. Against this gloom the soul must fight, Till once again it see the light. Agnes Swan-'58 The poetry of the earth is never dead. - Keats