Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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track. When they are released by the rais- ing of a door, an electrician starts the me- chanical hare and he is able to keep it just far enough ahead so that all the dogs may see it. This brings about the closely contested raeo which appeals to our people so greatly. The popularity of this form of racing is attested by the increasing demand for grey- hounds, which has been so great in the last twelve months, that they have had to be im- ported into this country from England, Ire- land nnd Scotland. MILDRED G. MOORE, ' 28. a shriek of despair, it stumbles off the bridge a nd plunges into the murky waters below — Weighed down with its precious burden. MILLEDGE GROUSE, ' 28. THE PROWLER Three o ' clock. Slowly and resonantly a bell tolls in a distant steeple. Rolls of heavy, grey fog are wafted in from the river down the narrow street, making the lamps glow like dull pearls. Sidewalks and streets are de- serted, and not a single glimmer of light shines in the massive, gloomy buildings tower- ing high on either side. Suddenly, a lone figure is perceptible skulk- ing across the bridge. It reaches the begin- ning of the street and disappears into a misty doorway. It reappears for an instant — then slinks into a dark alley. Lurking in obscure corners it makes its way along, stealthily creeping close to a large, impressive structure with windows covered by thick iron bars. Glancing furtively around, the figure draws toward the door. There is a muffled click a s of a lock being picked open, and the portal slides apart into a black slit through which the form hurriedly glides. Soft, soft footfalls move on a marble floor. Long, groping arms stretch in the pitchy dark. A deadened rasping of rough hands passes over a cold metal surface. A thin beam of light is thrown on a circular knob ! And a faint clucking sounds behind the metal- lic surface of a turning dial. There is a last faint knock as the iron posts move out of place, and a huge door swings slowly open. The figure nervously slips inside, and eagerly clutches at some small bags of coins — dropping them in its pockets, and securing them to its person. — Clong! Clang! Clong! — the burglar alarm! The figure has for- gotten about the device in its haste to obtain the metal pieces! But it must escape. Terror- stricken it turns and f lees from the building. Wildly it rushes down the street toward the bridge. It hears a clamor of shouts and whistles behind! — Faster and faster it goes. It is mad with fear. It cannot see— and with LES FLEURS AU PRINTEMPS Ah ! que je les aime, les belles fleurs, Surtout an frais printemps, Avec leurs couleuis si delicatcs, Et odeurs si odoriferantes. L ' eblounssement du coqueljicot. La pensee veloutee, La jonquille penchant dans les brises, Le trainant arbousier. .T ' aime la rose, la belle rose, La violette si petite, Le lilas blanc, la jaeinthe lavande, Et la confuse marguerite. Les abeilles et les oiseaux aussi Aiment au printemps les fleurs, Car ils apportent la joie aux enfants, Et le bonheur a tons les coeurs. RUTH GERSINOVITCH, ' 27. THE WILD APPLE TREE Oh! little wild apple-tree down by the brook. How came you to find so pleasant a nook? Hidden away from all the rest, Having for company, one little nest That a robin has built here year after year, Coming to you, with his heart full of cheer. Making you happy with many a note Ruljbling up from his little round throat. In the spring of the year, when the blossoms peep out. Yours are the loveliest, without a doubt. At last, when the robin says good-bye. You know that winter is drawing nigh ; But don ' t forget, old tree, so dear. That the rolnn is coming back next year. ROSE ASSENZA, ' 30. THE BROOK Slipping, tripping. Sliding, gliding. Flows the brook; Roaming, foaming. Flashing, splashing. In each nook ; Tumbling, rumbling. Pouring, roaring. On the way; Singing, swinging. Dancing, prancing. In its play. DORIS E. BAUER, ' 27. 19

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TREES AT TWILIGHT Gloom and shadow here more conquest hold, Tlian yonder in the teeming city way. Above snow-laden branches, drooping, sway, With ghostly gasps and listless tales half-told; Straight arms to heaven stretch an offering cold; Their fingers shake, and flail the fleeing day. With tiny ticking twigs, they twist at play; Across the sky are far-flung boughs enscrolled. Wind dully whispers to my wind-swept brain. Two fingers stretch the skin about my eyes. The lowered eyelids tug, and upward strain — Gricf-filk ' d joy meets Man, when Nature sighs, When tall trees writhe and bow in creaking pain, When low across the sky, a lone bird flies. JOHN BUTLER, ' 27. EVENING Behind the soft-scented pines of the west- ern hill the King of Day is giving up his reign. The majestic monarch is slowly sink- ing into Eternity. The faint, fluffy clouds, lazily drifting above, are tinged with pink. They become a vivid scarlet which suddenly turns to orchid and then they are gone from sight. Where? No one knows. But perhaps they arc serving their monarch, the Sun, in the far-off land that we cannot see. The western sky changes from pink and gold to purple and gray, then to dimness. Upon the whole world a magic spell seems spread. The trees cease to sway; the birds chirp sleepily in their nests. In the east, Mistress Night slowly and gra- ciously comes to her throne. The sky is now dark and the Keeper of Heaven has hung out His millions of tin-y silver lights. All is tran- quil. The water ceases to slap against the shore and all is still. The soothing hands of Night smooth away the worries and cares of the day. The human soul seeks its Creator in humble, loving worship before the beauty of the Night. LILLIAN S. PHIPPS, ' 27. THE WANDERER Oh, shadowy night, Without a light Except one star, That shines afar — How shall we know, The way to go? Send us a gleam. One friendly beam — One shining ray, To show the way; ' Tis time for rest, Aud home is best. ESTHER SAYEES, ' 27. AT NIGHTFALL Listen ! I can hear their tiny feet, patter, patter; It is the story liour. Shall it be of the grizzly bear Or the old woman in the shoe? Each little one listens closely, Fearing he may not hear everything. When the tale is over, They kneel at mother ' s knee ; With bowed heads and clasped hands, They softly say tlieir prayers. Then scamper off to bed. KATHLEEN .GURLEY, ' 27. GREYHOUND RACING Comparatively unknown in the eastern cities of the United States, but already well established in the South, West, and Middle West, is the new sport, greyhound racing. This sport gives every indication of becoming one of the favorite diversions of America. There are now twenty racing tracks in the United States, Canada, and Great Britain. Greyhound contests appeal to thousands and. they are held at night, when the majority of the people have their leisure time. The idea of dog racing on a track followed the invention of a mechanical hare, operated by electricity. Running around the outer edge of a quarter mile track, the hare arouses the dog to pursue it, as he does a live rabbit scampering across the prairies. We think the dog stupid because he is tempted to chase a dummy rabbit, but in reality he soon learns that he is jjlaying a game and has no chance of catching his prey. After he has learned this, the racing dog pays scant attention to the electric hare but enters into the sport. One of the greatest dogs in the sport. Sunny Concern, will not chase the electric hare. For a test, she was placed on the track alono. Her owner released her as a bunny came whizzing by. Sunny Concern trotted a few steps down the track and then returned to her master. A few minutes later she was joined by a kennel mate, and together, without the inulueement of the hare, they engaged in a thrilling race. Training greyhounds requires constant at- tention, and one who does not understand dogs is not likely to make a success of it. The dogs are kept in the best of health. They are given a thorough examination after every race and, if they become a pound or two over or under weight, they are immediately brought back to perfect healtli by api)ropriate treatment. Before a race, the dogs arc placed iji separ- ate compartments at the beginning of the 18

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AT RECESS This title caused me to smile and fall on it for the caption to my Monday-morning drudgery. For the freshman, one like me, lunch-hour is just a long pleasant joke, interspersed with pie. This period is far from dull. A fear- some clamor fills the air, and, to be heard, one must raise a voice sufficient to drown the headlong Niagara. Almost every day some- body drops a fragile milk bottle on the hard, unyielding cement, or slaps his ice cream up- side down on the floor, to be ironed into place by the milling mob. The floor is at best un- certain footing — greasy, slippery, extremely well lubricated. The bubbler is in continuous use. One youth constantly juggles ice cream. Passages from The Lady of the Lake and other masterpieces are retouched with slang and published — orally. But the climax in the way of home-talent amusement came two or three days ago, when some person with little foresight left a bass drum, free and clear of all encumbrances, standing — or does a bass drum sit? — in the midst of the above-men- tioned milling mob. ' Nuff said! Mr. Peter- son constantly walks his beat, his subjects making way before him and melting from view. After lunch a riot ensues near the local chapter of our locker row, till the bell jangles harshly upon the ear — any ear. Oh, yes, we eat our lunches, too. ORISON PRATT. ' 30. A VISIT TO THE FORD PLANT A short while ago a few friends and I visited Henry Ford ' s new assembling plant in Som- erville, which had just been completed and was open to public inspection during the ac- tual working time of the plant. Since it opened, a few days ago, the factory has al- ready turned out more than thirty-five thou- sand cars. When we arrived at the plant, I was imme- diately aware of the fact that we were not the only ones seeking such beneficial knowledge, for as far as I could see were cars of people who were either in the building or waiting to get inside. At last, by dint of much pushing, we suc- ceeded in gaining the entrance of the factory, where we were given a card to sigu. Glancing over it I was rather shocked to find in one corner, Not responsible for injuries sus- tained by visitors during the inspection of this plant. Immediately there flashed be- fore my eyes visions of myself crushed and mutilated by a lowly Ford, being carried off to the waiting ambulance. However, in spite of my gruesome forebodings, I determined to run the risk. At last, after being glared at, puslicd, and trampled upon by half the city of Boston, I was taken in tow by a white- uniformed guide, in company with approxi- mately fifty other adventurers. The most notable trait of the guide was the bored air with which he regarded us. Our first visit was to the power house where we were free to examine the great turbines. Becoming rather confused by the eternal roar and bustle, I put out my hand to touch one of the great engines. Suddenly it was grasped from behind and jerked violently back. Turning around, I beheld the guide, still with his bored air. He drawled to me, Say, Bud, if you had touched that, you would never know what hit you. Whereupon, lie turned and strode off, leaving me gaping after him, per- haps the most surprised boy in the world at that moment. After recovering my composure, I joined the party in the main assembling room. At last I was to see the much-advertised moving belt on which the Fords are assembled in such a short time. It was just as astounding as it is pictured. As I approached the belt, a triangular piece of steel was placed on it. Within fifty feet this same piece of steel had already begun to take form, and within an- other fifty I could see that a Ford was being created before my eyes. Soon after, my sus- picions were definitely confirmed, for upon the application of a little gasoline, the familiar riivver rattle came forth from the rear end of the car. Next the body was put on, and there stood l)efore me a shining new Ford. Tlien, liurdened with much literature and rather fatigued, I left the great plant, still, much to my amazement, sound in every limb. FRANKLIN TUTTLE, ' 28. TRY AGAIN! He saw the motto long ago, ' Twas one of mauj ' in a row: Try again! He pondered o ' er it every hour. And found his thoughts so long grown sour Were sweetened by a magic poAver: Try again ! Golden words pierced black despair. And gave liim zeal and strength to dare Try again 1 20