Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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SEA FEVER I sat on the rocky promontory, my eyes not on my line like those of a good deep-sea fisherman, but on the distant horizon where, faintly etched against the far blueness, a racing yacht was in its beauty the excuse for its creation. The waves swirled around my lonely stronghold, until I re- minded myself of many heroines of the ancient Greek myths — chained, or cast away on some deserted rock, in the midst of the raging deep. But suddenly my thoughts left that field, as a fresh breeze from the sea sent the white caps higher, and brought a stronger tang of the salt to my eagerly sniffing nose. My Grecian maidens vanished, and I thought of that sturdy old salt, my paternal grandfather, and realized how he must have felt when he declared that he hoped only that God would let him die on his ship, and that his body, wrapped in tarpaulin, might be consigned to the ocean on which he had lived. I tried to skip over the remembrance of the fact that he had died prosaically enough in bed of heart failure, and to remember only the glowing, exciting life he had lived, sailing the seven seas, seeing everything there was to be seen, buying curios in different ports to bring home to his family, and, above all, staying on the sea the year around. In some previous existence, I wondered if I might not have been one of the Northmen, making my ship my home during the warm months, raiding the coasts of England, France, Spain, even Italy, bringing back to my northern home the spoils of the Southland, about which to spin many a saga when the winter imprisoned me there. Or perhaps an old seaman, tried and true, in the service of Magellan, Drake, Da Gama, or any of the explorers, accompanying them on their distant journeyings to unknown ports and places. Or, in later times, the master of a lively Yankee clipper-ship when they reigned the seas, racing from ocean to ocean, enduring the wrath of the angry sea; if conquer- ing, to ride triumphantly home; if conquered, to rest in quiet content in Davey Jones ' s locker. No matter when I lived, no matter from what clime I came, still I must have been near the sea. And some day, perhaps some very far day, I shall return to my sea again, where the wind blows salt, and the stars shine clear, and I shall find happiness once more. Madeline Greer, ' 31. A POSTER Before him stretched a broad empty sheet of white. Quickly he bounds this limitless expanse with shaky lines along the sides. He scratches his head contemplatively, and then pulls a disfigured sheet of paper — through the thumb prints and smooches it seems to be a poster cartoon — from a folio beside him. Hesitatingly he makes some faint lines, erases them, almost repeats them, but thinks better of it, and finally, after some pencil chewing, arrays a queer misshapen figure before him. Its eyes have an unnatural stare which no amount of revision seems to remedy, and the rest of the body is in harmony. By dint of much head tilting, neck craning, and eye squinting, his figure assumes a more rational appearance. Some last erasures and the figure seems complete, so the artist turns reluctantly to the crude lettering beneath. For ten minutes he bends to his task, rubbing, scrubbing, replacing, and erasing, his mouth working curiously, and his brow wrinkled with exasperation. With a satisfied grimt he finally relaxes and tilts back his chair. Yes, fairly good if — oh, for heaven ' s sake — spelled wrong! He grasps the board, and for a moment he seems about to break it over his knees; but he relents, replaces the board, and with a resigned air obliterates the offending line and replaces it corrected. At last, with a swirl of triumph — or disgust — he leaves his board and gathers together an alarming array of weird- ly daubed, but brilliantly colored, paint jars. One arm embracing these latter, his mouth clamped shut on some brushes, and the other hand balancing an overfull water dish, he makes his way back to his desk. Arranging the prints before him, paper towels to one side, and water dish at his elbow — placed conveniently, alas, for shoving onto the fioor — he commences painting. Considering his frame of mind and his experience in the particular medium, he attains creditable results. The lettering turns out to be weak-kneed and these graceful flourishes seem oddly still and awkward. Undaunted he attacks the figure, we can pass over the club foot and the variance in leg size, but oh, how ruddy the face is compared to the deathly pallor of the hands! The artist, however, in spite of his air of profes- sional dissatisfaction, receives some inward satisfaction. The final touch is a border to pull it together — unfor- tunately the border serves its purpose as a millstone for dr owning kittens — to excess, but the artist is above such minor defects. Stepping back with a wonderful flourish, he strikes an attitude — his masterpiece. Clarence Doore, ' 31. MOBY DICK By Herman Melville Here is a story for excitement-seekers! Moby Dick is a tale of the high seas and of the stirring adventures and hardships of the whales. In a manner that bespeaks of intimacy with that industry, Herman Melville sets forth the story of those courageous men who wrenched their living from death ' s hands. We read amazing descriptions of the methods employed in catching the whales; and the many hazards which accompany such work are sometimes preposterous in their fearfulness. Melville draws splendid pictures of the typical whaleman, lean, leathery skinned from being continually buffeted by wind and salt-spray, and with a keen eye and a mind ever on the alert. The small formalities on board ship, and the often childlike supersti- tions of the sailors give an intimate touch to the tale, and, as in every whaling story, the spii ' it whales, of whom amazing things are told, lend mystery to the narrative. Moby Dick, one of those half-mythical whales, was a giant, white, malformed animal, the dread of every honest whaleman. This colossal whale had been many times sought for, and terrible was the havoc he wrought among those who dared to combat him. In a sea battle he tore off the leg of the dauntless Captain Ahab, whose mind from that moment on, was obsessed with the desire of revenge. The story of how, over half the Pacific, he pursued Moby Dick and of how at last he met his just fate at the hand of the whale, as punishment for the soul-consuming desire for revenge that swallowed all the good in the terrible old man, is a story that will thrill you to the last page. Elizabeth Humphrey, ' 33.

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ON LEARNING TO SKATE Winter, with all its cold weattier and out-door sports, has always been a period of great unhappiness to you, not because you can ' t skate, but because your parents are always after you to learn how. But this Winter things are going to be different — your mother has bought you a pair of skates which means that you simply must learn how. The eventful day dawns clear and cold; and, unluckily for you, it falls on Saturday — the day of house-cleaning. Mother constantly urges you to hurry with your work so that you can go and try the new skates. You, however, are in no hurry, and you ask several times every hour if there isn ' t something else to do, but mother says that she will do your work this morning so that you can get down to the pond early. You mumble something about not feeling very well, but mother is busy and doesn ' t hear you, so you trudge reluctantly upstairs to get your wraps on. This you do slowly, trying to think of some excuse that will keep you ai home. All of a sudden a faint light begins to glimmer in the Stygian darkness of your brain, and, after thinking a mo- ment, you dash out of the house and down to the pond — where you stand and watch the others all afternoon, secretly hoping that your mother will not go into your room. Then you come home and sneak upstairs, remove your wraps, and march trivunphantly into the dining-room, and sit down to dinner. You begin eating, not daring to look up and meet the inquiring glances of the family, and wait for the bombard- ment of questions that you feel sure the family will ask. It does. Well, dear, how did you get along? Oh— all right. Have a good time? Yeh — Pretty good. How do you like your skates? They ' re swell. Have many tumbles? Nope. (You wonder when this is going to end because you know you can ' t keep on fibbing much longer.) Going again tomorrow? Yeh. Then your mother pops a question that you can ' t duck. You ' ll have to excuse my seeming so dense, but will you please explain to me how you can go ice-skating when you leave your skates at home? You look -up blankly. She repeats her question and, again, you feel the eyes of the family upon you. Your eyes refuse to meet theirs, and you try to think of the excuse you had ready; but you can ' t, so you explain glibly, between blushes, something about forgetting to take your skates along. There is silence for a moment. Then father booms — Haw-Haw! and stifles the rest in his napkin; Junior yells Fraid-cat! ; but mother— mother maintains a stony silence, knowing that her expression will make a deeper and more lasting impression upon you than words. It does, and you rise hurriedly from the table and make for your room, but not before your mother promises you that you will go right back to the pond tonight and get used to those skates. And, after a time, you do. At last you are down at the pond watching the skaters skim gracefully over the ice. It looks easy. So you stand upon your feet and try to skim gracefully, but you succeed only in wobbling back and forth. You try to stop yourself from falling, and only fall harder with the snickers and laughing remarks of the on-lookers buzzing in your ear. You can feel your face going scarlet, and you ' re glad it ' s dark so that your blushes can ' t be seen. You spend most of the evening in concentrated squirming, and you ' re so hot that you wonder vaguely why the ice doesn ' t melt under you. Suddenly you find yourself skimming, not very grace- fully, but skimming, and you congratulate yourself on your ability to skate so soon — and so well! People who skate by you see a smug, oh-see-how-well-I-can-skate grin on your face and grin sympathetically in return. After a while you become conscious of shouting behind you and you are so confident of your ability to keep your feet that you turn your head (you haven ' t learned to turn on skates yet) to learn what the excitement is about. They all seem to be shouting at you! Now, why should they do that? You are a good skater now; they have nothing to worry about. You wave your arm to show them that you are all right and then turn your head back again to get your bearings. You see a great, gaping hole full of cold, black water coming up to meet you! Splash ! ! Burr— It ' s Cold ! ! And as you are pulled out of the icy depth by many helping hands, you say to yourself that this will teach mother not to force you to do anything that you ' re not ready to do yet. Doris McClintock, ' 32. THE WIND WOMAN The Wind Woman whistled softly through the trees of the little woodland on the edge of The Lake of Laughing Waters as she twisted in and out among the trees. Some of these had been the lady ' s friends for years and years, but for others it was her first visit. Nevertheless, old or young, each in turn was glad to receive the warm, sweet, breath of Mother Wind. Its effect was like wine for, as she passed, they immediately spruced up and looked at the world with renewed courage. The reason was that she had whis- pered to them that she would help them to sprout graceful new limbs and dress them in the most enchanting leaf dresses that her style bag contained. From the woodland to the cave she blew, waking up hungry bears from theii ' long sleep. Everywhere she received a royal welcome from the woodland folk. Then came her last people to visit, the lapping, laughing waters of the lake. Up they rolled to meet her, great at first, but then growing smaller. Still again they returned to the lake to gain force to reach her first. Softly she stepped over the waves, patting each on the head, smiling at some, kissing her favorites, and giving advice to all. Then on she wandered to make new friends in other lands, but as the little waves washed back and forth, they chanted joyfully, Spring has come, the Wind Woman has been our guest. Spring has come. Marjorie Moore, ' 33.

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STROMO Abruptly, from the wild expanse of restless wind-torn waves, rise the shear basalt cliffs of the isolated group of Faeroe Islands. A wilder, more desolate scene is unimag- inable. The Faeroes ' highest cliffs, some towering majes- tically almost two thousand feet above the sea, face the advance of the waves from the west, and here daily is enacted one of the most violent and awesome dramas of nature. Against these black barriers the Atlantic sends her mighty combers to break with explosive force and to burst into the most remarkable clouds of foam and surf to be found in the world. This ceaseless, relentless assault of the breakers on the braced shoulders of rock is slowly dissolving them into the ruthless ocean. On such barren islands, one would hardly expect to find any inhabitants. Yet, clustered in partially sheltered hollows and around the few and poor harbors are some three thousand primitively constructed dwellings of old Viking origin. Within the walls of these structures over twenty thousand people cling to the five hundred and forty square miles of unfertile, almost tree-less, storm-rocked Faeroes and eke out a meagre living from fishing, cattle- raising, and bird-catching. The people, like their crude and staunch homes, are of Viking and Danish descent, com- ing from that bold, sea-faring stock that produced the adventurous Lief Ericson. Their appearance and person- ality are those of a strong forebear ing race; their faces without exception are lean and tan, drawn with hard firm lines set from continued exposure, hardships, and unexpect- ed death in their unending struggle with nature. Eric Jensen, a true son of the Islands, walked down the main street of t he capital city, Tliorshaon, situated on Stromo, the largest of the Islands. The natives were proud of their kinsman, Eric, for, although he was but a little over twenty, he owned and commanded a fishing vessel and maintained the most prosperous fishing industry yet estab- lished in the Islands. Eric was well over six feet tall, very erect, broad-shouldered and massively proportioned — a very tower of strength and endurance. His eyes, set deep and far apart in a square firm face, were startlingly blue. His hair was light flaxen browTi and inclined to curl. His appearance was that of an honest and intelligent man — a leader of men. Today, however, the erect head was bent; the broad shoulders drooped slightly; the flashing eyes were dull and dreamy. Eric was thinking, rather debating within that intelligent mind of his. A long and earnest talk with his widowed mother was directly responsible for this unusual pensiveness. Eric, said she, as she reiterated what she had tried to impress upon him before, You are simply wasting your life here in these lonely islands. You are different from us; you are intelligent enough to make a name for yourself in the world if only you would go to Denmark or Germany and get an education. You have money enough now, and how could you spend it more profitably? What good does it do you here? There is absolutely no future for you; you can go no farther than you ' ve gone. You know these islands are treacherous and dangerous. And you know what happened to your dear father and Uncle Carl ... There she stopped. Eric remained silent for a long moment, head bent. His father and uncle had met their death whUe bird-catch- ing over the cliffs off Store-Dimon. Their suspension rope had frayed through and dropped them six hundred feet to the frothing waves below. At the time Eric was twelve years old. Finally Eric rose, slowly. Mother, I know you ' re right, but I hate to leave these islands. Somehow I love them with all theii- loneliness and treachery. I love them as you do Mother, just like all the other islanders. Give me time to decide. I don ' t know what to say now. I must go, for my ship is waiting to start. I can ' t make my mind up yet. We shall retm-n in three days, and I will give you my answer then. Do what you think is best, Eric, she counselled in the parting embrace. You have made good here, and I ' m sure you could in the educated world. Goodby. This was the problem that Eric was turning over in his mind as he made his way along the narrow street he loved so well, toward the pier where his ship lay waiting. The name of this ship like that of the Island was Stromo, which means storm defier. Truly the Stromo was a staunch and worthy ship. It had battled many a furious storm without serious mishap and deserved its fitting name. Eric ' s eyes brightened, and his heart quickened at the trim sturdy lines of his own boat, one of the finest the Islands could boast. The men who had been lounging aboard the craft came to attention as their captain approached. Although most of these men were older than Eric, they had supreme faith