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

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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

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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-

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Literary (Continued) Supper ' s ready and waiting, she announced. Join us, Craven, said John, rising from his chair. Thanks, said he, don ' t mind if I do. We take up the story again some two hours later. The atmosphere inside the house is suffocating and the three people in our story have gone out onto the porch tc get what little breeze there is. The keen despair of the Reids does not seem to have been imparted to Mr. Hiram Craven who again is pressing upon John his offer of $7,000 for the farm. Craven, said John at last, ' I can t sell this farm. It ' s my very life. I built this house and the barns myself. I ' ve improved the soil and grown good crops here up to this year. I ' ve worked my fingers to the bone and grown old here. Look at my wife. She ' s fifteen years younger than she looks. I ' m praying for something to save my life ' s work. Oh! for the blessed rain. I can ' t sell. The little group grew silent, so did the world around them. The wind no longer rustled the parched wheat stalks. Hiram Craven moved his feet nervously. He coughed. Then abruptly he turned, went down the steps and toward his car. As he was about to open the car ' s door a faint spattering struck his ear. (Mancing quickly upwards he perceived masses of unnoticed, tumbled clouds. And from then fell, of all things, rain! The spatter increased to a stead v pattering which in a moment proved very uncomfortable to Hiram. Jerking open the door of the automobile be popped into the seat and then he glanced back at the house. In the now roaring downpour he saw two figures. John and Mary Reid. They were on their knees in the rain their faces thrown back to its refreshing coolness. It was difficult to say whether their faces were wet with rain drops or tears of thankfulness as through the sound of the rain came John Reid ' s voice, the blessed rain. ROBERT SMITH You Can ' t Win An Argument (After reading Dale Carnegie ' s hook ' ' Hon to W in Friends and Influence People ' ) You can ' t win an argument, you ' ll hear many folks say, But we all get into one, about everyday. ' e il argue for hours on one little thing, We ' ll argue so loud, it ' ll make your ears ring. And what do you get? Just a sore throat, Maybe a headache, and the other guy ' s goat. ou ' ll be telling your best friend that he ' s all wet. And lose all the confidence of folks you ' ve just met. And so my dear friend, take a tip from me. Give in to other folks, and admit )ou ' re up the wrong tree. HENRY LAARHOVEN ' 39 Page Thirty-