Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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JELECTROPOLIS By Otfrid Von Hanstein Otfrid Von Hanstein is now recognized as one of the foremost of the scientific writers of Germany, perhaps of the world. He has written many excellent scientific stories of interplanetary travel. In a story, a Mr. Schmidt, a German, inherits the form- ulas and the inventions of the hero of a previous work. He has also bought an enormous tract of land from the Austra- lian government. On this land are located subterranean rivers which provide him with power, and enormous depos- its of gold and radium which provide him with wealth. He has a great desire to set up an independent empire and his ambitions are almost successful when the Aus- tralian government declares war. His plans are nipped in the bud, but something more ghastly and disastrous oc- curs and makes a definite change in affairs. The book is convincingly wi-itten; the illustrations are pleasing; and the lover of good scientific fiction will find a veritable horde of proved and possible inventions, which will stimulate his (or her) imagination and provide entertain- ment of a truly educational nature. Herbert A. Buttrick, ' 33 THE CLUB-FOOTED PANTHER Hungry, hungry, always hungry, why should she, a club- footed panther, be handicapped with a litter of panther kittens in the lair on the steep sides of old Bald-faced Mountain? She had been born a club-foot — always only the scraps of food had been left to her, while her great mother made several attempts to kill her; but she had survived, and now full grown she suffered more than before. Several attempts at coveys of grouse; a long tedious stalking of rabbits, then to miss, embittered her greatly. So, as the sim began to disperse the mist, she loped de- jectedly homeward to her fuzzy kittens. What was that delicious odor the wind brought to her nostrils? A herd of deer with a stately buck as leader were slowly making their way up the mountain. The path they were taking would cause them to pass under a huge rock overhanging the trail. The panther with fresh hopes, cautiously circled the herd and made a tedious ascent of the huge piece of granite. There she crouched, her thin sides heaving, while she slowly flexed and unfiexed her cruel curving claws. The herd drew closer, closer, till they were within easy springing distance. The great cat was motionless, her nervous agitation only expressing itself in the lashing of her tail. Suddenly, with an ear-piercing shriek which paralyzed the herd with fear, she sprang; her curving forepaws slashed a young doe ' s jugular, while her one good hindpaw ripped and tore its flank. The doe dropped, wallowing in her own blood. By this time the rest of the herd had disappeared, and with a few growls of feline joy and contentment, the panther pro- ceeded to gorge herself. When her hunger had been satisfied, she slung the re- mains over her tawny shoulder and set off for her den, where five rapacious kittens awaited her homecoming. Thomas Gleason, ' 33. A BOMBING ATTACK Nestled in a secluded wood a few kilometers north of the picturesque French town of Bar-le-Duc in the Verdun sector, lay the aerodrome of the 45th Aerial Pursuit and Bombardment Escadrille. Long, shiny fingers of Septem- ber sunlight penetrating the few openings in the heavily clouded sky have bathed the country-side in a semi-darkness light. While a group of jovial French and American air men partake of a hasty breakfast, their helpful mechanics groom their winged charges to prepare them for a long flight. This early morning activity came as a result of a brief dispatch received from Headquarters the previous night. The dispatch stated that in order to meet with success in an allied infantry drive that was to be launched the following day, a fleet of bombers and pursuit planes from this aerodrome were to annihilate the German ' s source 01 munitions — the enormous munition arsenal situated in Magdeburg, Germany. This assignment was to be no easy task, as Magdeburg was an air distance of approximately two hundred kilometers behind the enemy lines. In order for the bomber ' s target to be discernible, the attack must take place in broad daylight. To assure the heavy, slow, and awkward bombers as much safety as possible, three patrols of the best fighting machines at the front were to act as a bodyguard for them. Ten minutes before the hour of departure, the restless aviators clambered into the cockpits of their war planes to await the signal from their leader. Mechanics carefully loaded six one-hundred pound explosives on the bomb racks of each one of the huge Candron Bombers. Exactly on the appointed hour the leader of the expedi- tion gave the departure signal by waving a small, white flag. Simultaneously, the nine Nieuport scouts roared down the dirt runway, bounded into the air, and were soon gain- ing altitude over the aerodrome. As soon as the last pur- suit plane left the ground, the five heavily laden bombers slowly lumbered down the field to a take-off. They gath- ered into a flying V formation at an altitude of eleven hundred feet as three battle planes took a position above them, and the other two patrols flew on either side. Just before crossing the French front lines the aerial armada climbed up through a hole in the low lying clouds. At six thousand feet elevation they again resumed a hori- zontal flight toward the Rhine River valley. Below them as far as the eye could see stretched an almost solid layer of fluffy clouds like an Arctic ice field. After flying by compass for almost two hours, they received a fleeting glimpse of the winding Rhine. Within fifteen minutes after leaving this river, the formidable air fieet was cruising over its objective, and as yet. it had met with no interference. Breaking formation, the air men dove their machines down, down through the damp clouds. While the Nieuports hovered above, the Candrons swooped until their altimeters registered five hundred feet. The German ground defense now became active, and anti- aircraft shells exploded on all sides of the invaders. Peer- ing through telescopic bomb sights, the pilots in the Can- drons let their missiles of destruction descend. Inside of ten minutes the three thousand pounds of explosives from the five bombers had reduced the once proud arsenal to a blazing heap of debris. Workmen that appeared as if they were insects scampered in all directions from the inferno of fire and death. Their task successfully completed, the

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ly, at about two o ' clock, the plane again headed earthward and again came to rest in an ocean of muddy water. Thank- fully we staggered forth, waded across the field, and after passing through the customs, were driven to our hotel. Thus ended my first airplane flight. Eleanor Poster, ' 33. MODERN POETRY If a poem is worthy at all, it isn ' t tough — it is frail and exquisite, a mood, a moment of understanding, a cabinet which falls apart at a clumsy touch. Perhaps, this little quotation, containing so much truth of thought, explains why modem poetry is unpopular with many people. In a multiplicity of cases, one reads modem poetry not in a moment of understanding, but in a mood of foolish prejudice. Few could sit down by a cozy fire with an anthology of poems by Sara Teasdale, Lizette Wood- worth Reese, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and Robert Frost, and not delight in it. All of their works create a lasting im- pression, have personality in expression, and sincerity and beauty of thought. Sara Teasdale ' s lovely poem called The Coin leaves one in rich dreams. Into my heart ' s treasury I slipped a coin That time cannot take Nor thief purloin. Oh, better than the minting Of a gold-crowned king Is the safe-kept memory Of a lovely thing. Carl Sandburg, another of our twentieth century poets, writes more of the city, and the huge machines; therefore his thoughts are practical. His striking power of description is evident in Fog. The Fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on. Surely excerpts fine as these — the best of Masefield, Noyes, Lizette Woodworth Reese, and Edna St. Vincent Mil- lay, Robert Frost, and Amy Lowell — to mention but a few — will stand the test of time. Margaret Rogers, ' 32. IS THIS BOSTON? Boston is composed of four or five different elements, business, foreign, residential, and well-to-do sections. I shall try to picture two of the outstanding. Quiet, clean, uncrowdcd, open to nature and sunshine, this is the rich man ' s domain. Sunday and Monday all the same; very few persons are on the street, while limousines, phantom like, silently glide by. The stillness is so oppressive that if one ' s thoughts were not centered upon something important, he would be soon counting every tap which heralded his approach upon the concrete walk. In the alley ways, strange sounds are issuing from behind closed windows. The farthest away is that of a piano, be- ing played by a pianist who is thrumming away at some mournful dirge which has struck his fancy; the foremost is a voice, that of a woman who is perfecting her vocal powers by running up and down the scale with ever increasing momentum, until she decides it is enough. The other sound is a violin in the hands of a master, who is playing some heart rending melody. And all these sounds do not seem to break the monotonous silence — only to increase it. Noisy, dirty, stinking, overcrowded, sunless — not a blade of green grass to be seen upon an empty lot — this is the environment of the poor man ' s son. Dark, dim, red buildings enclosing a cobblestoned street with the roaring elevated as a ceiling — this is the jail, wherein children play and make merry. Children everywhere, dark-haired, dark-eyed Italians, blue-eyed, light-haired Slavs, and meek, but wily Jews, all one underneath the shadow of the ele- vated. Vendors of all sorts sell their wares at the top of their voices; long, lean cats, with wild eyes, slink into alley ways submerged in ashes, garbages and wastepaper. Many mothers scold their children in many strange tongues and rarely do their progeny escape from a thump fit for a prize- fighter. What a remarkable difference there is between one ele- ment and the other. To visualize this one may learn only little by reading, but much in actual life. Alexander Lutkes, ' 31. THE MODERN GIRL AND STYLE I have on my desk an album of old-fashioned pictui ' es which belongs to my mother, and as I look over these people of long ago, there comes to my mind a conversation I listened to the other day. A man was saying, Well, we used to have ladylike girls, and then we had breezy, ath- letic girls, and now we have eager smart young things. I wonder what will be the style in girls next year? The style in girls, he said, not the style in girls ' clothes. We are accustomed to think that girls have remained the same during these hundreds of years, and that only the style of clothes has changed, as if the same girl had put on a tunic in Greece, brocaded velvets in the Middle Ages, bustles in the 1890 ' s, and short skirts today. But really it is the girls inside who have changed, and they have changed the style of their clothes during all these years to fit their own personalities. It was a prim girl who was responsible for prim styles; not prim styles that made the girl seem so. That is all very interesting to think about and ponder over, and it makes a starting point from which to wonder what sort of girl is going to choose clothes to fit herself to- morrow. It is exciting, too, to think that the ideas out in the world are shown in the sparkle in girls ' eyes, and the swing of their bodies. But there is another side to this question of style that I find very unpleasant, and that is the feeling I have every once in a while that gii ' ls now-a-days are all alike. They are all making themselves after one pattern, trying to fit in the same mold. I had that feeling very keenly the other day when I saw a group of girls walking down the hall. They looked like a strip of paper dolls who were training theii- growing bobs in exactly the same way, and whose voices had the same in- flections. Haven ' t you seen one girl in a crowd establish a line, and every other girl in the same crowd repeat it par- rot-like, whether it suited her abilities, or not? Now. why not be yourself? Ruth Assenza, ' 32.

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bombers joined the scouts again, and the victorious fleet proceeded homeward. Suddenly, without warning, seven German Fokker tri- planes came diving out of the clouds with the speed of a falling meteor. Rapidly the Nieuports closed in to protect theii ' charges, but in spite of thetr haste the enemy claimed a bomber and a scout, which fell earthward out of control of their bevioldered navigators. As the Fokkers pulled out of their mad dive, they climbed to seek a position under the Candrons. The audacious aviators in the Nieuports, eager to avenge the death of their comrades, each singled out an antagonist, and a fast and furious melee ensued. Dodging, climbing, diving, looping, sideshipping, and banking — the precarious contestants used every trick and manoeuver that they knew to try to outwit their foes. The observers in the rear cockpits of the remaining Candrons were effectively using their Lewis machine guns as two Fokkers had been welcomed by a deadly leaden hail of bullets as they became too friendly. These two aeroplanes slipped into oblivion as the spirited combat continued. Soon after this a Candron, imable to out-manoeuver its agile adversary, was set ablaze by a burst of incendiary bullets from the mouth of a Span- dau machine gun. Leaving a long, black trail of smoke, the plane spun like a fiery comet to its destruction somewhere in Germany. Another Fokker was accounted for as one of its wing sections collapsed, the result of a strenuous power dive. It fell like a plummet. The last German to meet disaster was caught unaware between the deadly cross-fire of two barking Vickers. With a dying effort he squeezed the trigger of his Spandau machine gun and luckily shat- tered the whirling propeller of the nearest Nieuport. Al- though the intrepid Frenchman had his aeroplane under control, he was forced to land in enemy territory. With four members of its squadron down, the Germans saw defeat; hence, they withdrew from the combat and flew deeper into their country, while the less unfortunate allies re- organized and headed for home. After a continuous flight of four hours and one-half the remaining bullet-riddled war machines, with tanks almost dry, grounded on the friendly terra firma of their home base. Little did the reading public realize when they read the newspapers a few days later, the real cause of the German retreat that took place the following day. John Pindlay, ' 31. HONESTY BEFORE REWARD Cora! Yes, mother, a rather feeble voice answered. Get up! You know it ' s six forty-five and I shan ' t call you again. Cora ' s mother closed the bedroom door with a bang and went down the stairs to prepare breakfast. After her foot- steps had died away, Cora rising on one elbow, rubbed her sleepy eyes, and looked with amazement around the room. Is today Saturday? Do I work this afternoon? Do I have school today? All these questions flew through her mind at once. Finally, she realized that today she was to take that impor- tant history test. The history teacher offered a gold medal as a reward for the pupil receiving the highest mark. Cora, who was a good student in history, had earnestly studied for a week previous to the examination in order that she might have a good chance at receiving the medal. All the important dates which she thought might be asked in the examination, Cora repeated to herself on the v ay to school. In the locker-room all the girls said that they were relying on her to win the reward for the girls. Certainly, she mustn ' t let Claude Sergeant, who thought himself the best student in the class, win the honor. If he did, the boys would feel quite superior to the girls; if she won it, the girls would have a great triumph over the boys. Each girl assured her that she could do better than Claude, who boasted much about his historical knowledge and, in truth, wasn ' t as smart as he pretended to he. While walking to her home-room, Cora met Claude. Good Morning, he said, with a sarcastic look on his face. Do you think you ' ll try for the history medal? You ' re about the only clever girl in our class. Yes, I ' m going to try, she answered. Poor Cora was so excited that she could say no more. She continued to walk toward her home-room because she feared she would burst into tears if she continued talking to her opponent. Of the eight questions Cora answered correctly the first seven. Then she glanced at the eighth. Why hadn ' t she reviewed all the Articles in the Constitution? She should have known that at least one question would be devoted to that important document. Her girl-chum, Helen, who sat one seat behind her noticed Cora sit erect and act puzzled after reading the eighth question. Although Helen could not answer the first questions she could answer the eighth. She wrote the answer on a piece of paper and handed it to Cora, who read the note, and then tore it into pieces. Only one more min- ute before the papers would be collected! She started to copy the answer, but drew a heavy line through it because her conscience bothered her. Someone seemed to be saying to her, Cheat! Cheat! At the close of school, Claude Sergeant was announced as winner for ability in American History. Everyone ex- cept Cora congratulated him; she could not bear to face him again. Instead of walking home from school with her friends, as she usually did, Cora waited until all had gone. Then, alone, she started for home. Suddenly she heard some one call, Cora, may I speak to you a moment? She thought she recognized the voice; then slowly she turned. Claude was only a few steps behind her. Yes, you may, she said in a low voice. Cora, I — I, he stammered, I ' ve come to ask you to forgive me for the way I treated you this morning. I ' m sorry. I saw Helen pass you the answer to the last ques- tion. Not knowing the answer to it, I leaned across the aisle and read the note. Quickly I copied it so that I might have a good chance at winning the medal; at the time, I did not realize the dishonest act that I was committing — my only thought was to receive the medal. Later I saw you destroy the note which you might have copied and thereby win the reward. You deserve congratulations. All the honor that I received this morning rightfully belongs to you. You knew better than to sacrifice your honor for a gold medal. Honesty comes before reward, always. After finishing this sentence Claude ' s voice failed him. Cora was so surprised that for a minute she could not re- member where she was, or to whom she was speaking. She