Vergennes Union High School - Blue and White Yearbook (Vergennes, VT)

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6 VERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL BROKEN IDOLS Mary Bourget, ’33 Bruce Morley was one of the persons whom Anthony Trevors trusted and liked most; in fact Bruce was Anthony’s closest friend. They had grown up together, graduated from Harvard together, come to New York together—one to become an architect, the other a critic—and had lived in the same apartment for a year. '1 hen, just as Anthony was becoming quite famous as a critic, Fate stepped in. Anthony, being young, idealistic, and highly emotional, had given his first fine faith of friendship to Bruce, and he had worshipped Sonia Wharton, his fiancee. Bruce had been his ideal and Sonia his idol, and at one blow these two were swept away. Bruce had eloped with Sonia. The pal whom he trusted so much had eloped with the one girl he loved. Three weeks later two more idols were swept away. Anthony’s father and mother, to whom he had given a splendid love, had both been killed in an automobile accident, and it was then that Anthony began his lonely travels. Carefree and gay, the best in sports and the most popular—that was Anthony at Harvard. Clever and well-known, as a critic and society play boy—that was Anthony in New York the year after he graduated from college. Crushed and dazed, with his world shattered—that was the Anthony who sailed for Europe. Cynical and disillusioned, with his world put together but with the crack showing—that was the Anthony wrho returned. From a happy-go-lucky boy who was “all-right” with the world, Anthony had changed to a tragic youth whom Life had hurt. And now, after three years, Anthony Trevors was back, and it was rumored that he wrote very little and that what he did write was bitter, skeptical, and full of hidden cynicism. It was also whispered that in his wanderings Anthony Trevors had collected a priceless set of chessmen which had once belonged to the Empress of China. It was true; in fact this collection of chessmen had become Anthony’s passion, his one and only ambition in life. He had placed what remained of his shattered faith and love upon these beautiful but lifeless bits of carved ivory and jade. They were not a mere collection. They were a symbol. For the past six months he had been searching high and low for the one jade, king which he lacked to complete his collection, and he had searched in vain. The irony of the situation lay in the fact that after scouring remote corners of the earth he found it in a Chinese laundry three days after landing in New York. He was strolling aimlessly along the streets when he passed this laundry. Something seemed to draw him to the window, and through it he saw a jade king, laid carelessly on a dusty shelf! I le rushed in and five minutes later rushed out with the chessman in his hand. Walking hurriedly towards his apartment, Anthony was absorbed in trying to picture how the completed set would look. How he would feast his eyes on that rare collection! But as he unlocked the door a vague fear came over him, and this fear changed to dread as the door of his safe opened. He looked in. An expression of disbelief came upon his face. Fate could not have done this to him! He looked again and groped wildly. They were gone! Every chessman had disappeared ! Blinded, Anthony stumbled to the window. In his eyes there was a look of utter devastation, a look of pain— because something beautiful, precious, once possessed, was lost forever. In his heart there was the searing that bitter memories bring. Anthony Trevors was going through a fierce struggle—Could he and would he go on after

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BLUE AND WHITE 5 THE PEOPLE’S CHOICE Robert Larrow, ’32 Up one flight and down a long, low corridor any passer-by could see a door, to all appearances ordinary, which bore on its frosted glass the time-worn legend “Civic Social Club Members Only.” But not everyone who might be passing that way was privileged to open that portal and penetrate the inner sanctum. For the “Civic Social Club” had long since ceased to perform its purely recreational purposes, although it was sometimes remarked by those “in the know ’ that nearly all the officials and magistrates of the fast-growing city were frequences of this inconspicuous social center, while most of them were never known to indulge in billiards, the sole “recreation” afforded, and represented by one rather rusty table, a few tipless cues, and a more or less incomplete set of.balls, rather yellowed by age. Across the street, towering high in its massive bulk, the unmistakably Victorian city hall overlooked the busy city, a visible assurance to any doubter that law and order reigned supreme. But this was only for the uninitiated and the unknowing; for those at the head of the administration, the symbol of the security of law and the predominance of order was vested in the equally massive bulk of one, John H. Flannagan, “Honest John,” never a candidate, but the maker of “people’s choices.” But tonight, the night of all nights, pandemonium reigned supreme in the club, while an expensive radio, rather incongruous in its setting, blared forth from one corner. For this was the night of the day prescribed by law— “the first Tuesday after the first Monday in the month of November, when the polls shall be open from 8 A. M. to 8 P. M., that the people of this city may cast their vote for the offices of mayor and other city officials, who shall serve them for the duration of two years.” In the Civic Qub a motley assembly in various stages of repose were all intent upon the periodical report of the election issuing from the local station, waiting to observe whether the fickle electorate had cast their ballots according to the dictates of their conscience and the behest of “Honest John.” In the farther corner sat “Honest John” himself, an unlit cigar slowly disappearing to regions unknown, and an expression of ever-growing pleasure upon his complacent countenance. Around him clustered four of his henchmen, deep in a discussion of ways, means, and finances. Near the radio sat J. Connell Lancaster, candidate for the office of mayor on the Non-Partisan ticket. Upon the opposite wall hung a campaign poster—“J. Connell Lancaster—the People’s Choice—Economy, Reform, and Lower Taxes—Endorsed by Civic Service League, League for Better Voting, Committee for Civil Reform.” The radio again held forth: “On a basis of returns from sixteen wards out of a total of eighteen, J. Connell Lancaster is leading his two opponents by a plurality of more than ten thousand. The election of the Non-Partisan Reform candidate marks a new epoch in our municipal history.” In the other corner “Honest John’s” cigar did an inverse leap, and his hearty voice boomed out. “Well, Jack,” for such was the “J of J. Connell, “we put it over.” In a modest home on the outskirts of the city a common working mail, home from his toil, remarked to his wife, “Well, Jane, we put it over. We beat the ring.” Above in the heavens the Fates continued to spin and twist the feeble thread of life, and the gods smiled.

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BLUE AND WHITE 7 this last blow, without anyone or anything to urge him on? If only he had something to help—something on which to pin ois faith, to hold and never lose. But was everything gone? Was there not still a symbol of hope? For in his clenched hand lay one perfect precious, amazingly beautiful bit of jade. He would go on. FEAR Marion Leonard, ’33 As I wait in the cockpit of my plane for the dreadful thing that is about to happen to me, I can not help thinking of the terrible danger I am in. I shiver at each drop of rain which falls on the shattered wings of my once faithful plane. The wind grows more fierce, and the terrific hail is already tearing my old standby to pieces. My blood runs cold as I hear the cracking of something, possibly a wing being tom off by this baffling storm. I feel faint and unable to manage the controls much longer. I begin to dread what all others who have already joined the innumerable caravan did—• namely. DEATH. It is the end. I feared it all along. The storm has grown worse, and with it I am all alone, with only fear and dread keeping me company. My motor stops. How swiftly my plane rolls over and over, until it crashes on some unknown land. And I—I am gone. Good-bye, cruel world. Bang! What? How can it be ? Where am I ? In a hospital ? Of course not. I’ve just fallen out of bed. IF ONLY------- Mary Bourget, ’33 If only one small wish of mine came true, And some good fairy brought me something new, I’d want an inexhaustible supply Of inspiration, ready when I try To write a theme or poem—brilliant bit— Or else a modem story full of wit. I’d voice ideas and thoughts by wise ones kept. And at debates and talks I’d be adept— Well, there are many things that I would do If only that one wish of mine came true.