Stoughton High School - Stotonian / Semaphore Yearbook (Stoughton, MA)

Page 31 text:

Literary (Continued) Have you ever had a nightmare: a niglitmare that haunts you throughout the entire night; one that keeps popping up in your mind for days and days, and weeks and weeks afterwards; is so consistent in its reappearances that your marks grad- ually change to hrighter color, while you lose weight, forget to eat, and no longer look like your normal healthy, cheerful self? Such a thing happened to me. Let me tell you about it. I had just retired for the evening after indulging in a little snack — to be specific — three doughnuts, a banana, y- lb. cheese, a crabmeat sandwich, and 1 4 of a choc- olate layer cake. Being at peace with the world and having had an elegant suffici ency, I snuggled down in the covers, allowing my mind to drift off to vague and misty regions. Suddenly strong fingers clapped down on my shoulders (perhaps it was the crab ' s claws I wheeling me about, face to face with a very dark chocolate faced man. That he was worried was aj)parent. La ers upon layers of wrinkle lined his features. An explanation for this was forthcoming when he made known his reasons for so rudely whirling me around. His name was Mr. B. A. Scout; his occupation, a moving-picture producer. As all the stars in Hollywood were sick-a-bed with the flu. production was at a standstill. One brilliant M.G.M. board member had conceived the idea of finding twins to fill in for the stars until they could once more resume work — and, that ' s where I came in. said Mr. B. A. Scout. The board of directors had ap|)ointed me to find the exact dup- licate of each actor and actress pla) ing in a current production. With my thoughts as muddled as if a cyclone had struck them, I stumbled into school, staring at every one I met, trying to fit them into «ome star ' s shoes. On my way to Room 23 I ran into Jimmy Dykeman and let out a whoop of glee. With his way with the ladies and exceedingly good looks he was a perfect Clark Gable — one off in list. Next I went in search of a little girl with blond curls to fill in for Shirley Temple — of course Alice (Shorty) Stanwood was my choice. Third on my list was Freddie Bartholomew. My hunt for a dark curly-haired boy noted for his gentlemaidy actions and all round good behavior wound up in Calvin Porter. Then came Mae West. Hm-m-m. thought 1, she must have an over abundance - along with a pleasing personality. Ah. I found just the one — Irene Tirelis. Now, there ' s my Mickey Mouse sneaking around the corner again. Robert Evans. But one had me stuck. Charles Laugblon. The person to fill this bill would necessarily have to be serious minded, a good actor, and slightly portly. After searching for ages I found him in the person of Felix Truczinskais. Next came Greta Garbo. The one for this j art would have to be very quiet, a person who likes being alone. Betty Staples where art thou? Oh, I almost forgot Fred Astaire. Who is small, very agile, with a grand Page Tivenfy-

Page 30 text:

' ' Monseigneur, A Petition! The lone carriage jolted along the dusty highway bathed in the crimson light of the setting sun. Curried horses with silken manes drove the satin lined coach. Monseigneur reclined elegantly in a far corner of the luxurious affair. Suddenly, the foaming horses drew to a halt, and the occupant of the carriage assuming an indifferent air. leaned out. What is it vou want . ' he asked of the young woman who confronted him. ' Tor the sake of the Holy Father. Monseigneur. A petition. The woman ' s haggard face was drawn and aged. Deep shadows lined her sunken eyes. The colorless lips opened slightly and she mumbled, For my husband. Monseigneur. he is dead and lies buried beneath a little grassy mound. Ah. Monseigneur! It is so sad. 1 beg of you — Again? interrupted the bored aristocrat. Please, Monseigneur. but a bit of stone or wood — anything with mv husband ' s ;iame inscribed upon it. Monseigneur was fast becoming impatient and denoted this by tapping his daintily shod foot against the rim of the wheel. His sympathies were unmoved, devoid of life and love for humanity. Casuallv he adjusted his powdered wig. Casuallv he smoothed the lact frills of the embroidered collar. Still more casually he studied his nails. The woman, wishing to pursue her object, wrung her scrawny hands and sighed impatiently. Her faded apparel clung to her like a last thread of hope. The ashen lips trembled and tears of remorse filled the sunken eyes. A slight breeze stirred the graying hair and fanned the fevered brow. Monseigneur was by now twirling his waxed moustache. Did he care. ' Could he make his escape from this living scarecrow? Anything, anything to get away from her petition. Petitions! That s all they thought of, these dogs. In a moment the valet had thrust the woman aside, and the carriage rolled off into the dusk. Monseigneur again adjusted his wig and heaved a sigh of relief as he settled back against the satin cushions. On a hill far away the lone figure of a woman sobbed at the foot of the rugged Cross of Our Saviour and prayed silently. Meanwhile. Monseigneur and the remain- ing nobility twirled the waxed moustaches of a devastated nation and adjusted their powdered wigs. (Adapted from an incident in A Tale of Two Cities — C. Dickens) HELEN ACOULIS ' 39 Page Txcenty-eight

Page 32 text:

Literary (Continued) personality, not at all bashful and a perfect mate for Ginger Rogers? Mike Crim- mins. Next on the list — but with a jerk I came awake resolving to confine my little snacks to the after noons. BLANCHE ROWLAND ' 38 ' ' The Blessed Rain ' ' The hot. dry wind blasted across the endless, dreary plain. It rustled the parched yellow-brown leaves of a wheat field. It drove dust particles against a low, rambling frame house surrounded by barns and machine sheds. On the porch of the house, in a creaky rocking chair, slumped a weary, discouraged man who gazed with unseeing eyes out over the dry fields confronting him. From the door behind him came a tired-looking woman in a faded gingham dress. Well, John? ' she said. It ' s no use Mary, turning about in his chair to her. The crop ' s done for. This wind s uncovering the roots and I don t dare run a cultivator. The soil ' s too dry anyway. Tiat will we live on, John? she faltered. God only knows. he replied. This crop was to take us out of debt. Now it ' s ruined us. ' We can t sell the place I suppose? Not a chance. hy the farm s blowing way in this wind. His wife quietly turned and entered the house leaving John with his head bowed forward on his two hands. The faint purr of a motor brought him into tense expectation. A cloud of dust on the road to the house dissolved and showed a speeding car which grew in size until the figure of the driver drew a look of hate and distrust to John ' s face. As the occupant of the car alighted and waddled up to the porch he called in a voice meant to be friendly. Well, howdy-do, Mr. Reid. A faint, surly nod was John ' s reply. How goes the crop, friend, squeaked this blowy individual whom I shall introduce as Mr. Hiram Craven. Crop ' s done for, was the short reply. What are you going to do? I don ' t know. Want to sell? No answer. I say, my friend, squeeked Craven. 1 11 give you a fair price, say .S7,000. ' That wouldn ' t pay half of my debts. returned John. Besides, what am I to live on? Here came the slam of the screen door and Mrs. Reid stood on the porch. She nodded to Hiram and he half-bowed in return for this friendly greeting. Page Thirty