Stoneham High School - Wildlife Yearbook (Stoneham, MA)

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THE STONEHAM HIGH SCHOOL AUTHENTIC Callers Once, while I was sitting under an old apple tree, the queerest feeling came over me. Soon I heard a low rumbling noise, as of thunder, coming nearer, nearer and louder. I began to tremble. Surely it couldn’t be thunder. Thunder hasn’t such a hollow sound. Oh, what did it mean! I thought of all things I had read about in fairy tales, but nothing seemed quite like it. May- be, — maybe my end was at hand! I dared not think, for fear I might imag- ine the right explanation. In the midst of my surmising, the noise broke off with a crash ! Then suddenly, from everywhere it seemed, from the branches of the tree, from the ground, from every possible place came small, hideous things, — for I know not what else to call them. To be sure they had two long, snakey arms and legs and squinting eyes that seemed to peer into one’s very soul, but to call them men, would be an insult. They stared at me until I thought I should sink into the ground. Dancing clum- sily around me, wriggling and squirm- ing, they made me feel like squirming myself. I tried to get up, but I seemed to be glued to the spot. They still con- tinued to wriggle, reminding me of eels and snakey things. As if the thought was not enough, they drew snakes from their pockets, and wound the creepy things around their arms and bodies. They seemed to enjoy the sport im- mensely, but as for my part, I’d rather not have been there. All this time they had not made a sound or given an explanation of their precedure or their presence there, ob- viously to aggregate me, — and they certainly succeeded. But why were they here acting so? I tried to recall all the wicked things I had done. I remembered once of having told a lie to my mother about eating the green apples which had given me so much pain; and of another time when my uncle (who was always finding fault with me) having called, I dropped a banana peel in front of the door, which action resulted in his having to stay home with a sprained ankle for a while. While I had been repenting my sins, my tormentors had been gathering thorns from nearby rosebushes, but when they started to prick me, I jump- ed up mighty quickly, I tell you. Looking beyond my late acquaintan- ces, I saw another of their company coming, evidently their leader, for he was dressed better than his companions and was on a horse. Such a small horse. He looked as though he might break down any minute, on those thin and trembling legs. But of all hideous things! This newcomer outdid his sub- jects, everyone. I thought that now, surely, my fate would be announced. Oh dear, what should I do! But just then my foot slipped — and well it might have for my legs had got the spirit of the place and were shaking more than I cared for — and I started rolling down the bank. Thud! I land- ed on the floor just in time to hear my mother say, “Time to get ready for school !” G. C. The Lure of Provincetown By this I do not mean to say that the house of Provincetown are in the least alluring for I certainly do not re- member them so, but the great, beauti- ful, lashing sea coming roaring up onto the sand was the alluring part of Prov ncdtown. The ride over, I re- member little of. On facts ten years ago ones memory is apt to fail. I do, however, remember the accommodation that stopped for us when we arrived. Our house was like the other houses at Provincetown. Its front yard was of yellow sand, not of grass, and beyond this stretched the sea. Every morning we would wake to the roar of the sea, of the foamy billows, After breakfast it was nothing but of the cries of the sea gulls, freedom all day. We would play in and out the water finding oysters to cook. This was the water whose one draw- back was crabs. Never have I gotten over a hostility towards crabs since one grabbed me by the foot. The approach of afternoon usually meant a rido or walk in the sand dunes. If you have never walked there you do not know of the delicious sensation of having one shoe full of sand. It is a desert, whose little tufts of grass stick 9

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THE STONEHAM HIGH SCHOOL AUTHENTIC danger lerk in a wood so peaceful, — on a shore so quiet. Now and then the youth heard a rus- tle in the leaves, — some restless wood- chuck or perhaps a hungry bobcat in search of a luckless squirrel. From out across the lake, an occasional splash was heard, — the vicious leap of a carp or rock-bass. He longed for a quiet fishing trip on that broad expanse of dark blue sea. Yet this was not the time for such thoughts to be traversing his mind! Behind him was the woods; before him, the sea ; and at his feet, a long, low canoe, loaded to capacity with every sort of equipment. Quietly the youth raised the stern of the craft and tried vainly to move it. Its weight was too great. He hurled the contents on the sand and again tried. This time it slipped silently ov- er the pebbles into the ripples, ever running up on the beach. Carefully, Bob seated himself in the stern and noiselessly paddled northward. As Robert Clinton made his way across Lake Manitoba, the moon sank, the sun rose and likewise sank. Three long weary days passed beneath his paddle, and three chilly nights warned him of the approaching winter. The fourth day arrived and found the youth wandering along the bank of a muddy river that wound its way southward to the great lake. As evening drew on and a heavy fog settled on the water, the boy drove the prow of his canoe be- neath some overhanging willows and ventured to eat a bit of cheese and bis- cuit, which he had slung in a packet over his shoulder. He had just finished his scanty meal, when he thought he saw, gliding along the opposite shore, a long object, without doubt, a canoe. He arose to obtain a better view, but the dense clouds had closed in, and the object was lost. He did not wait for any preliminary preparations, but shoved off, and, with all his might skimmed over the rough sea toward the distant shore. This he soon reached, but did not encounter the strange ca- noe which he so hoped contained his sought for brother. He was in dispair. He thought that possibly his whole three days journey would be in vain. He listened a mo- ment. Everything was still. Slowly he drew forth his heavy pistol, raised it above his head and fired. The report echoed from shore to shore and then died out. Once more silence settled on the wilderness. But Bob was not satis- fied. He knew there must be some one in that desolate region who could give him fresh supplies and temporary com- panionship. Again he fired. The echo died away as before, but instead of si- lence resulting, from out of the thicket at his side, a flash of flame darted forth, and the luckless youth pitched oyer into the muddy current. From the same thicket, two men broke forth, each with a double barrel- ed gun and a long hunting knife pro- truding from his belt. The first, tall, sunburnt and rugged; the second, some- what shorter, but also tanned like leath- er. As the two approached the water, the former gave a startled exclamation. “Look,” he cried, “it ' s Bob!” “Bob? You’re crazy.” “Bob! My brother,” cried Walter Clinton, as he darted into the stream and dragged forth his young brother, all cramped and twisted with pain, from the swirling waters. “Bob, I thought you were from Whitney’s gang.” “Bandage that arm with the cloth in my kit,” commanded Walt, “and then give him some water, poor kid.” The cramped form slowly turned over and gazed at his brother towering above him. “Walt,” he said at last, “there’s a bullet in one of my lungs, I guess” — and then he fainted. It was a sad little party that paddled over the bosom of Lake Manitoba in the last days of September, and a sad- der one yet that wound its way among the Vermont hills in the ever speeding noon express. As the long train again came steaming and panting along its narrow pathway, old Mr. Clinton sat uneasily on the carriage seat with a huge chestnut horse before him. The train came to a standstill. Two black porters carefully lowered a long stetch- er from the mail car and placed it in the carriage. As the carriage rattled up the long, winding country road, with Walt and his father on the seat and the suffer- ing boy, bound in bandages, in the back, a voice from the rear said almost in a whisper, “Who was the man with you, up there in that wilderness, Walt?” “That,” replied Walter, “that was Turnbuckle Whitney.” 8

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THE STONEHAM HIGH SCHOOL AUTHENTIC up at intervals, but the rest is all sand. At noon we dined away from home. We went across the street to a small restaurant where the other people that we knew ate. Viola, our Portugese friend, was alwaj’S there. When we first came we were impress- ed by a large group of artists who sat on the beach, their various casals turn- ed towards the bright blue sea, their brushes working. TOAST TO MEMBERS OF 10 ENG. LISH I We of classical ’27 Are in a divided state, For some of us are in room four While some are in room eight. In our class’s an officer bold Who guides the traffic whirl. This duty she performs quite well For she’s a Learned girl. Other two there are also Who are greatly held in honor. Can 3 r ou guess their names when I ask you this, “Did the Taylor go round the Connor?” Miss Smith an artistic child is she Whose portraits I’d fain disclose, But we’ve never seen her draw one yet Of a man with a “Patch” on his nose. The Junior High may brag about Their building grand and all. But just the same ten English one Can boast of a Newhall. Some people are afraid of rams, Here’s someone worse than that Who tried to Dodge a Lamson quick And lost his Sunday hat. Though we all have curious traits, And with faults are somewhat possessed We make a happy and joyous group, For we think that our course is the best. P. W. Instructor — What is the quickest way to produce sawdust? Student — Why-er-er- Instructor — Come! Come! Use your head, use your head. “Are you sure these field glasses are high-power?” inquired the timber cruis- er of the shop-keeper. “Say, fellow,” replied the enthusias- tic salesman, “when you use those glas- ses anything less than ten miles away looks like it’s behind you.” After lunch we often had a boat ride. Father sat at the oars and mother and I at either end. My sister, who seemed to fear sea riding, and doubt the safety of boats usually visited the owner of the house where we stayed who was a pleasant, elderly woman whose son owned the tiny yellow rowboat, Virgin- ia. I hope to go to Provincetown again. S. L. ERASMUS Erasmus is a solemn man. He never deigns to smile at all From out his picture hanging on The moulding of the study wall. At length, therefore, I took him down From off his dusty picture pin And hung him on another knob Where people come more often in. But even then he could not smile Or call his endless writing done; Indeed I thought his countenance Less happy than his former one. And so at last I put him back Among his more beloved books Where there are none but them and me To care how his expression looks. M. H. ’25. DON’T DON’T BE a Knocker — you can’t saw wood with a hammer. DON’T BE a Blowhard — save your breath for an emergency. DON’T BE a Crab — there are plenty of them in the ocean. DON’T BE a Showoff — if you’re real- ly good the world knows it. DON’T BE a Crepe-hanger — we’ve got troubles of our own. DON’T MAKE Alibies — give the oth- er fellow credit for being some good. DON’T WASTE your time writing stuff like this. Mr. Levy bought a bowl of goldfish home to his boy, Abie, and the follow- ing brief and illuminating colloquy en- sued: “ABCD goldfish” “LMNO goldfish.” “O S A R.” Levy knew. He had tested them with acid.