Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

Page 11 text:

Throughout the pages of this novel I objected chiefly to the wordiness of the letters that were introduced, for it seemed that the lengthy descriptions introduced therein re- tarded the action. After reading novels of modern times, so direct in their presentation of thoughts, it also proved difficult to adapt my mind to a steady perusal of the subtle speeches that were characteristic of the eighteenth century courtiers. In all other respects I found The Seats of the Mighty to be pleasant reading. The plot itself is well developed, and at no place in the reading does one lose sight of the main characters and their occupations. The hero, a Virginian and a captain in the English Army, having been captured by the French, is held unlawfully as a hostage in Quebec for more underlying rea- sons than his situation as a prisoner of war would warrant. Despite the fact that he has been made the victim of cruel intrigue. Captain Moray ' s brave spirit is never reduced to the despairing attitude that a severe imprisonment like his often produces. The author ' s characterization of the lovely French heroine is well presented and proves that this man is one of the few writers who openly idealize the influence of a faithful and adoring woman over a man ' s attitude towards his position, no matter how discouraging it may be. To maintain her part in obtaining the freedom of her lover, this remarkable heroine plays a double role: one phase portrays her among her courtly countrymen as a woman of the world, flippant and sage; but the true side of her nature, foremost only where her lover is concerned, reveals her as a girl, virtuous, tender, but not unsophisticated. The reader will enjoy also the minor characters — al- though few and minor because of their importance to the story ' s motivation — for to each one the author has attrib- uted captivating personalities — Doltaire, the unscrupulous master; Gabord, the soldier; Voban, the barber — all these will interest you. It may be said truthfully that even though the com- plicated foundations of the plot may seem to require much exposition, the thrilling sequence of events appearing at the end rewards the patient reader. Merritt Stockbridge, ' 30. SITTING IN EASY CHAIRS Sitting in some modern easy chairs is not so easy. I think there is nothing more uncomfortable than an uncomfortable easy chair. The uneasiness of many easy chairs is often augmented by pillows and cushions that are placed on the chair, I think, for their pretty colors rather than for their comfort. Personally, my greatest difficulty in settling comfort- ably in easy chairs is in my trying to read a book. Then the manipulation of an erratic bridge lamp, unruly cush- ions, and a body which loves ease enter into my quest for comfort. I have a weakness for crossing my legs over the arm of the chair. My usual procedure is to sit down, place my legs over a cushion of the arm of the chair, open the book, and prepare to enjoy an evening of reading. Grad- ually my senses tell me that the extremely hard cushion at my neck is not high enough. I adjust this and continue to read, only to find that I have lost the place. I then wonder why I am not comfortable and move the pillow on the arm of the chair to the floor. My brother, meanwhile, has changed the position of the lamp, and I am left much in the dark. After a verbal argument with my brother that nearly ends in my resort- ing to force, I compromise. Peace reigns, but not for long. The cushion at my neck has lowered itself until it is half- way down my back. By this time I become slightly peeved, and I am almost ready to give in. However, with a desper- ate resolve to be the victor, I deposit the remaining cushion on the floor (rather forcibly I confess), place my feet flrmly on the floor, and settle back to read. In this position I peruse my book to the tune of jazz songs, would-be come- dians, and screeching sopranos — for half an hour. Then I decide to get some real comfort in bed. Francis Magee, ' 31. A SOPHOMORE ' S DREAM One night Willie Whoosis went to bed and dreamed a very strange dream. His dream is my story. It is A Tale of Two Cities (one city is London; the other, Rome) and concerns one sailing vessel and all on board. The captain is William Shakespeare, The Ancient Mariner, and the crew is made up of Julius Caesar, Brutus, Orlando, and Silas Marner. The passengers are Rosalind, Benjamin Franklin, Sohrab and Rustum, (who are two brutish Ara- bian gentlemen), and the Vicar of Wakefleld. The ship is sailing from London to Rome. On the first day out Brutus kills Julius Caesar and then commits suicide. On the same day Orlando falls in love with Rosalind, which is another bad break. The ship is not safely manned, as only Shakespeare and Silas Marner are now left of the crew. (Orlando is more bother than good in his present love-sick state.) On the first night out, the ship strikes a rock. In the mad rush to the lifeboats, Rosalind falls overboard and Orlando dives after her. They are picked up by the rest of the passengers and proceed to sail, by dead reckoning, for land. Rosalind accepts Orlando ' s proposal of marriage. Benjamin Franklin prints all the wedding announcements. Next the twain are united by the Vicar of Wakefield. Sohrab and Rustum pay their respects to the married couple and promise to give each a genuine Arabian horse. Captain Shakespeare sights land and in a few minutes all are back on terra firma once more. This story can be believed or not, it ' s Just As You Like It. Stephen Brennan, ' 32. EVELINA At the beginning of 1778, English literature, and espe- cially fiction, seems to have suffered a kind of sleeping sickness. The great writers such as Fielding, Richardson, and Walpole were the only living writers of any em.ncnje. In January, 1778, Frances Burney ' s book, Evelina or A Young Lady ' s Entrance into the World , was published. The plot of this novel is not intricate. First we are acquainted with the parentage and the early history of the heroine, Evelina Anville, or more properly Belmont. At the beginning of the story, her low-born grandmother, Madame Duval, having ignored her for seventeen years, begins to show signs of obtaining control over her, much to the dismay of her guardian, the Reverend Mr. Villars. But nothing happens until Mr. Villars permits Evelina to visit

Page 10 text:

We all gathered around the chair, with very long faces, ready to begin. The service consisted, as far as I can re- member, almost entirely of music — maybe you wouldn ' t call it that. Our quartet was accompanied by two combs, a thermometer, and a slat from our picket fence. (So that you may better understand, I will tell you that the slat from the fence served as a ' cello, and the thermometer had been considered a find, because it was so large and just fine for a violin, especially with the glass part (which we had taken off) as a bow.) You have all played on combs and know how melodious they are. To go on with the service. When they all signalled ready, I gave the pitch, do . It apparently didn ' t suit the other singers, for each one started at whatever pitch he ple ased. First we sang Good Morning to You, then America, followed by the Star-Spangled Banner ; then came many other songs — just as appropriate. Having finished the service, we proceeded to quarrel as to where and how the bird should be buried. Since I had found it, I had the privilege of having its grave in my yard. Shrimp lowered the box into the hole which Charlie had dug, and Endy covered it up. We decorated the grave, and then all went in to supper. As I said in the beginning, the funeral pleased us so much that, having nothing better to play the next day, we dug up the poor deceased and repeated our process of the previous day. After a week or so of this, my father in- terred the bird for the last time — we never knew where. Priscilla Eaton, ' 31. THE DETECTIVE STORY The detective story has found a place in the literature of the world. It is a distinct genre, and it has many well- defined characters, as has other fiction. Who has not heard of Sherlock Holmes? Or Arsene Lupin? Or Father Brown? Or Mr. Fortune? Or Dr. Thorndyke? A reader of detective yarns is in surprisingly good com- pany. Edison reads a detective thriller now and then to relax his mind. Theodore Roosevelt liked to read them. Steinmetz read them. College professors read them and, occasionally, write them. Willard Huntington Wright, art critic and writer, is an example. He has made quite a study of the detective story and has edited an anthology of the best, taken from all over the world. Now his sales are enormous: he is S. S. Van Dine, the author of the Green , the Can- ary , the Bishop , the Benson , and other Murder Cases . His books are well-written and usually have a cul- tural background. For some intellectually inclined persons, the detective story offers mental exercise like a puzzle or game, but more uncertain, as human nature enters in. Consciously or un- consciously, we try to solve the mystery ourselves. We are confronted with the same evidence as the super-sleuth and we attempt to piece together the reconstruction of the scene. And there is a certain satisfaction when we can place our finger figuratively on one character and say, That is the man! and, continuing, find on the last pages that we were right. The modern detective is a change from the hyper-super- ultra-sleuth who never left the armchair. We have more or less action and display of psychological pyrotechnics. And, of course, there is the dyed-in-the-wool fan . Orison S. Pratt, ' 30. A PIRATE SHIP The Crossbones lay on the silver water of the Pacific. The crescent moon hung from the fleecy clouds and shed its golden light on the calm water. The ship, an old master, had long cruised the sea. All was quiet aboard the old ves- sel till a shadow darted across the deck. It paced the deck impatiently, looking around now and then to see if all was well. It was the midnight watch. The pirate ran up the stout ladder to the crow ' s nest to spy. In an instant he returned and raced across the deck to give his report to the captain. A whUe later he returned with two other pirates and cleared the deck for action. A signal was given by the captain, and scores of other pirates swarmed the deck. They had knives in their teeth and guns in their belts. As they neared the merchant ves- sel, a brawny muscular hand dragged me out of my hiding place. Get up. You ' re late for school. Oh! What a dream! John Callahan, ' 33. THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND The First Hundred Thousand , by Ian Hay, describes in humorous fashion the development and growth of a raw Scottish regiment in Kitchener ' s First Army. Though the characters of the story are fictitious, the events are authentic. The book is primarily of a humorous tone, but here and there is a touch of pathos or solerrmity which makes it, in my estimation, one of the most likable and enjoyable books I have ever read. The story has no connected plot and is but a series of incidents and portrayals depicting the progress of a body of humble miners from a state of civilian slovenliness to that of militaristic cleanliness and discipline. He who has not read this book has missed something. Rather ! Lawrence Doore, ' 30. THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY By Gilbert Parker Gilbert Parker has introduced in his romance, The Seats of the Mighty , the very novel atmosphere of an his- torical background and a theme of love. Seldom does one see in modern fiction authors attempting to blend fact with romance. There are many reasons for our contemporary novelists ' avoidance of the historical setting, and foremost among these are two facts: first, they cannot ably substitute fictitious titles for names of repute; second, they be- come greatly involved in making a plot and a climax co- incide with facts which are so well known that, if general truths are disregarded, their works become subject to the harsh criticism of historians. But Mr. Parker, having se- cured the aid of prominent Canadian antiquarians, was able to produce successfully The Seats of the Mighty both as a romance and as a review of the English invasion of the French stronghold, Quebec. In reading this novel, I was reminded of Dic kens ' s A Tale of Two Cities because of the parallelism of the plot. In both stories one sees the heroine working vainly to rescue her lover from unjust imprisonment. At this point, however, the book under criticism differs from and sur- passes Mr. Dickens ' s work, for the escape of the imprisoned victim serves not only as the climax, but as a vital step towards the execution of the exciting anticlimax.

Page 12 text:

a friend of hers, Lady Howard, at Howard Grove. Prom that point he is unwillingly persuaded to let Evelina accom- pany Lady Howard ' s daughter, Mrs. Mirvan, on a visit to London, where Mrs. Mirvan is to meet her husband, a captain in the Navy, who has been gone for seven years. Oddly enough, one of the first persons they meet is Madame Duval travelling with a Frenchman named Du Bois. The Mirvans, who have been temporizing with Madame Duval in order to keep Evelina with them as long as pos- sible, are now obliged to surrender her for a time to her grandmother, by whom she is carried to London. Eventually she returns to Mr. Villars, her guardian. During her stay in Holborn, she has become acquainted with a young Scotchman named Macartney, whom she saves from suicide. In Paris, Macartney has fallen in love with a beautiful English girl, the alleged daughter of a baronet, who turns out to be Sir John Belmont himself, Evelina ' s father. This girl, Bessie Green, was palmed off upon the great remorse of John Belmont, as his long-lost daughter. Finally at Bath, things turn out right. While Evelina is there on a visit, her father meets her, and her striking resemblance to her dead mother is unmistakable. She is at once acknowledged by her father, and finally, she bestows her hand upon Lord Orville, the best of her suitors. The distinctive merit of this book lies in the skillful character drawing. The clever contrast in different indiv- iduals is marked throughout the novel. I enjoyed, especially, the method of the author ' s writing from the point of view of the heroine and in the letter form. Frances Burney seems to portray her younger self in the person of Evelina. Madame Duval, in particular, produced the comedy. It is diflBicult to understand how any man could have wed her. Her English was illiterate, and every now and then she tagged on French words. The only touch of tenderness which I perceived in her nature was her solicitude for her poor French companion. I noticed no admirable traits in Madame Duval ' s character, but I at least felt sorry for her when so many practical jokes were played on her. I recommend this novel to all pupils who like effective character drawing and authentic portrayal of conditions in a remote era. Rose Assenza, ' 30. A MODERN ROMEO Romeo was dreaming. But this was not nearly as amaz- ing as it sounds, for Romeo was always dreaming. He sat at the end of a large dinner table, his soup spoon wedged firmly between a pair of even, white teeth, and his eyes staring vacantly into space. Suddenly he heard his name called from outside. Romeo, Senor Romeo. He jumped up from the table, and dashed out to the balcony. There, below him stood his man-servant, Bernado. Mees Fay, she ees drown, he exclaimed breathlessly, in broken English. Do you mean that Fay Cadet is drowning? cried Romeo excitedly. Si, Senor, answered the obedient servant. Get my horse in front of the house in two minutes, commanded Romeo. Bernado was strapping the saddle on a great, black horse when Romeo reached the pavilion, and in a moment Romeo was off. When he reached the crest of the mountain, he gazed long and hard through his field glasses. He could see the San Jose River winding slowly on its narrow, rocky course. On the river he saw a small, black speck moving swiftly in the falls. Romeo spurred his horse on. Once moving he was flying along the bare ridges. In five minutes or so, he had reached the bank where the falls dropped down thirty feet. He saw a frail raft bearing a terror-stricken girl, coming down the river. A moment later as the raft reached the head of the falls, he was ready. Slowly and surely he flung the rope. It slipped easily about her slim waist. For a moment the raft hesitated, then crashed over the falls leaving Fay clinging to the rocks. Romeo held the rope firmly, and pulling gently, he assisted her to the shore. As she stepped out on the bank, Romeo seized the wet figure in his arms and cried, — Romeo, shrieked his mother, come back to earth. Romeo jumped, removed the spoon from his mouth, and went on eating his porridge. Virginia Lee, ' 32. A VISIT TO A BATTLEFIELD A cool breeze is blowing over the meadows, snatching up the sweet fragrance of every little flower and every blade of grass, and throwing it playfully in my face. The rolling fields of hay sway and ripple in the wind, like the restless breast of the ocean. From the clear sky above the song of the meadow lark floats down, warbling and trilling in the cool morning air. One would imagine such a scene of peace and beauty, to be a section of the Elysian fields. And yet ten years ago on these same fields was waged one of the fiercest battles of the World War. Here, the big guns rent the heavens with their relentless crashing; here the Ger- man advance was checked, and thousands of American boys gave their all to the cause. On the paths the birds now traverse, the airmen once winged their way, spreading death and devastation through the land. Where the crickets chirp the rifles of the allies once cracked. Now once more I wander over the rolling hills. Here and there are deep ragged holes where some shell burst, tearing the bosom of the earth. A long crooked ditch, in which runs a little stream of water, shows me the spot where the dough-boys threw up entrenchments. I find an occa- sional bayonet or broken rifle, which perhaps marks the resting place of some soldier. Finally I come to a little fenced-in plot fllled with white crosses, here, indeed, is the spot where some Americans are buried. I hurry on now, for the day is drawing to a close. The cool breeze which has blown throughout the day has ceased, and all is quiet. I have reached the top of a hill, and, as I look off in the distance, I see silhouetted against the red and golden rays of the setting sun, the crumbling walls of a ruined church, and beside it a dead tree, stripped of foliage, seeming to raise its bare arms to Heaven in prayer. These two stand as memorials of the famous battle of the Marne. I turn to go, and, as I walk swiftly homeward through the gathering dusk, I hear faintly, yet distinctly, the last clear notes of Taps : All is well, safely rest, God is nigh. The night drops her curtain of stygian blackness, and the quiet of a summer eve is upon me. Stephen Rogers, ' 30.