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

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BLUE AND WHITE 7 such thoughts. 1 can go for a walk at night and, as some people call it, stargaze. I never think of those huge monsters or dangerous men following me, but just enjoy myself. In my thoughts I can travel to the farthest and most remote places of the earth. Darkness and solitude pave the way to dreams, dreams of the future. One whose mind is in a state of fear in the dark is not to my idea a strong-minded person. He should dream the dream and this leads on to the deed. He should accomplish the long-cherished dreams which are spurred on by darkness. Forget your fears! Go for a walk when the world is in darkness. Imagine night as a jewel-strewn cloak thrown over nature. Pleasing thoughts come only to those who really want and try to have them. They cannot be bought or sold, but darkness often inspires them. Soon you’ll have no fears from which to attempt to free yourself. “Happy is the man that getteth understanding.” Begone ye fears—Why should I feel alarm When night steals on, with all its dusky charm? HAIR ON THE HEAD (In a Nutshell) Bertram Arthur Perry, ’35 Is your hair wiry or silky? Is it red? Brown ? Black ? Are you a platinum blond ? If you can not answer one of these questions in the affirmative, come up and see me sometime, unless you happen to be old Bluebeard himself! To begin with, who likes curly hair? Echo answers, “A woman,” if she doesn’t answer first. (She usually does). In my opinion any boy who has naturally curly hair is very unfortunate. However, by this I do not mean to say that the fellow who has his hair all sleeked down is any better than that little curly headed youngster. Remember the “Villain” of the drama of twenty five years ago?—Sleek hair, manners, and—mustachios! ! ! You have probably read “ads” containing the appalling statement that any man who uses water on his hair wiil be “Bald by forty.” Well, 1 use water on my hair every time I comb it, and as yet. 1 am far from bald headed, although I am nearly—eighteen years of age! ! ! Where I came from, there is a cur- rent story that goes something like this: At the age of six, when asked by the barber how I desired my hair cut, I immediately replied, “Just like Grandpa's, and please don’t forget the hole in back where his head sticks through.” Whether or not I can claim that as the reason, to this day 1 still hate to enter a barber’s shop. Hair, of any size, color, or description is all right in its place. Who is there, however, who has not at some time or other,—along with the usual supply of wood, nails, string, and debris—found in his favorite dish, a hair? ! ! ! “If such there be, go, mark him well!” Of course this intrusion may be the result of the cook’s ire being aroused at the lack of pepper, ginger, or some such mild seasoning to stir in with your dessert before serving it up on your gold platter, whereupon he instantly seizes upon a handful of his beloved thatch and deftly, but surely, (sometimes painfully) extracts it from its secure resting place. After all. just what good is hair?

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6 VERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL cured, everybody would lie satisfied. The butcher’s son takes his cornet lessons over the barber’s shop from an old band master who sports side whiskers. The barber below, being a nervous man, takes nicks from ears and noses of those who may be in his chair whenever piercing blasts reach his ears. His business has been dropping off lately. Another popular instrument is the saxaphone. These instruments range in size from a vest pocket edition to bulky monstrosities which need to be transported in wheelbarrows. The student picks out a fairly small model called the E flat alto. If the neighbors pursue him with axes and the like, the instrument is light enough for a quick get away and still heavy enough for a suitable defensive weapon when he is in a corner. One often sees advertisements in the magazines explaining how to become the life of any and every party by learning to play a musical instrument in spare time. It doesn’t work—I tried it. When I sat down at the piano, they laughed; when I finished they showered me with flowers, but they neglected to take said flowers out of pots. According to Hoyle: “If you have music in you. leave it there.” I pon our Editor’s achievement rare I cannot comment. Really, I don’t dare. THOUGHTS ON THE DARK Kathleen Belden, ’36 Thoughts! Thoughts! Of course people who have fear of the dark probably never could find any pleasantness or soothing effects from thoughts in the dark. I can imagine! They think that a dark, sinister man is following them, stealing stealthily, slowly along, ready at any moment to jump out at them. Again, they think that some huge unheard-of monster is crawling up behind them. At every little noise, seemingly large (.to them), they turn sharply, expecting to see a dinosaur ready to swallow them. But, that is what imagination does to some of us. On the other hand, a person who is not afraid of the dark, like myself, may gain from the hours of night thoughts to cherish always. How I love to sit in the dark, listening to the music on the radio. I can never recall my exact thoughts during that time, but I know I feel dreamy and comfortable—as though I had never had nor ever would be called, I roamed into my home-room. The door into the hall was closed and because only the middle row of lights was on in the Main Room, almost no light came from there. Quite naturally I slipped into my seat and gazed about me. The usually busy street was dimly lighted. My eyes wandered to my teacher’s unoccupied desk, and yet she seemed there. My classmates seemed to be sitting in their places as they waited for the first period to begin. Another picture flashed before my mind and there they were, ready for English have a care in the world. 1 recall a certain Scout meeting. We were at the schoolhouse having inspection. As I waited for my patrol to class. The whistle! My Scout-Leader’s summons for inspection—and the picture is gone. Not only do I listen to music or sit in my home-room in the dark to have

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8 VERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL For looks, you say? I hardly think so. Maybe on a cat. hut hardly on a human head. (At least not on some I’ve seen.) Warmth? I still wear a hat in winter though I still have plenty of hair. I’m You find no good in A jinx upon you—May from Missouri and—they showed me! ! We men (I don’t know about women) have hair on our heads to make us pay out forty cents every two weeks for a haircut! ! ! hair? I am appalled; you soon grow bald. IMPRESSIONS OF A CADDY Raymond Morris, ’35 Oh, for the life of a caddy! All play and no work! That’s what you think. I go thirty-six holes with a man who walks fast enough to give a race horse a good race, and I try to keep up with him with a bag containing fifteen clubs over my shoulder; that’s the life. Then of course, there is another way of looking at the job, if I may call it such; there are the tips. Some people are good tippers and some are better. Then, too, there are some that are worse, those, of course, being the ones who do not tip at all, tipping being one of the many principles of life in which they do not believe. Of course you will find an individual once in a while who is very pleasant and nice to caddy for, and I don’t mind working for such without a tip, but when one of those persons who curses and swears when he dubs or misses a shot comes around, we either feel like, or do, scamper to the many corners and crevices of the clubhouse nearby—that’s another story. Then the caddy master, the dear old soul, comes out and says, “Freckles, take Mr. G----------’s bag, and I with a pleasant smile, which, by the way, I forced upon myself, say “Yes, Sir,”— there my troubles begin. For about two hours and a half I find myself one of the most forlorn people on the course, but when we reach the eighteenth hole, it seems about the happiest moment of my life. The other fellows are all out back of the caddy house eating dinner, and the minute I appear they all start at once to ask me how much of a tip I got—if he was ugly—and all in all I get pretty well cross examined before finishing dinner. Then there is the job of shagging balls, as it is called, which in reality means chasing balls. This is a job which everybody loves from the bottom of his heart. (I mean that it is there that love begins and ends). This is another time when the call to work finds everyone scampering to the unknown seclusion of the clubhouse—unknown to everybody except the caddy master— and he comes there and finds me or one of the others. This means another half or whole hour of good downright exercise. Then finally 4.30 rolls around and those that are not working either go in swimming or go out and play golf themselves. About six o’clock everybody is in from work and play, when we board our fresh air taxi and wend our weary way home, and on arrival in the Ancient City we usually accord it a rousing welcome. A caddy’s life is fine, some fellows Xow you have read, do you agree say. with Ray?