Warren High School - Hilltop Yearbook (Warren, MA)

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Babbling on its way, the little brook's transparent water lends a bright contrast to the brown earth with its gray piles of brush lying here and there. Stealthy footsteps are heard .... some starved animal out for lunch .... Now a fox's stacatto barking echoes ominously, cutting the air with its sharp edge. A screech owl tunes up on his tour of the woods, then silence, then more crackling of the underbrush--probably limmie Skunk is bug-hunting. Silence again, and it is at this time that I realize how spooky the woods are at night. PAULINE HAMEL '4l AN UNLIGHTED STREET The dragon shut his mouth with a snap wlfen the door of the street car closed behind me. Alone, in a dark street! Was that a rumbling train or one of the membcrs of the dragon's digestive system? A light, as if from a comet, whizzed by me. Was it a car with its two eyes beaming at me or another victim in a white raincoat? A melodious whistle sounded close by me. Was it a car's herald or a note of satisfaction from that which held me prisoner? Something hurt my foot. Was it a rough cobblestone or one of this mon- ster's msiplaced ribs? Two flashes of light, evidently playing tag with each other glided past me. Two more victims? Perhaps they had seen two cars. Light again! Had the dragon put me aside for a more tender morsel, or was I actually standing at the soda fountain? PRlSC.lLLA JONES '4l TWELFTH HOUR The room had an air of mystery. It was almost midnight, and the pale moon sent the murky shadows of the great oaks creeping stealthily through the windows. Murder is bent toward the murkier shadows in the furthest corners of the room. A bat whirred against a broken window, then went wheeling on to nowhere. An owl screeched a warning, then a cloud crossed the moon, leaving the room in tense darkness. There came a knock on the door--the knob turned slowly--then entered--a skeleton! He clanked sedately and in a deep voice broke the stillness, Now if someone will please turn on the lights, we will have refreshments! It was a Hallowe'en party. GLENNA HARROLD '42 BY THE SEA lt was a perfect afternoon. Lavender-winged gulls soared and dived above the sand dunes which were patched with the shadows of drifting snowy clouds. The out-going tide exposed its sea-weedy, tin-can strcwn shore, and trailed fringes of white foam as it ebbed in curling amber-green waves. Beyond stretched an indigo sea, the color of amethyst where it met the horizon. Dropping behind the highest dune, the sun splashed the sky with crimson, lemon, orange, fluffs of mauve, and scarfs of rose. The after-glow tinted the roofs of the sedate old houses which bordered the sea, brightened the black bands on their white chimneys, and transformed windows into molten sheets of brass and copper. Columns of smoke from wood fires spiraled and spread. An undefinable hint of spring hovered in the soft, salty air as l drank in the beauty of the scene. HELEN BOYDAK '4l THEY DO NOT SPEAK OUR LANGUAGE Today in the United States the American people are greatly concerned with the various foreign organizations in our Country. Take, for example, the Bund organization, controlled by Adolf Hitler. People are alarmed over this Nazi movement in our own country. Their recent display in Madison Square Garden has greatly agitated every American citizen, We are grateful for the freedom of speech offered to us, but, on the other hand, we can't in the least way appreciate a Hitler campaign in our country. lf the real Ameri- cans could have done what they wished, probably, those few hundred Nazi-loving aliens would have been loaded onto ships bound for Germany, where their loyalty and support of Naziism would be welcomed. Here they could live and enjoy themselves by paying enormous taxes for armaments in return for being able to say Heil Hitler, give the popular Nazi salute with their arms, and wave the Nazi flag to their hearts' content. We have no room for them in America, and the sooner they realize this the better. Another group of undesirable people is the lewish refugees. We feel sympathetic towards them. We realize their unhappiness at the loss of home, country, and life earnings. Of course, there is no excuse for their unjust treatment. Perhaps we are being unfair and selfish, but we can't see why we should have hundreds of them here. After all there are thousands of American citizens seeking employment. Thousands of high school students are being graduated every year. Naturally they should be provided for first. Even though we pity these refugees who have suffered mercilessly at the hands of Hitler's brutal men, we have no room for them here. The opportunities in America should be offered to Americans first. MARIORIE CAREY '40

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After leisurely strolling around, they came to the very edge of their property and stood leaning against a high fence. Yonder, Happy, live our neighbors, the wealthy Foranders. Happy, what couldn't we do with one- tenth of their immense fortune? g I wonder just what you would do? A voice said, and a young man stepped forward. Peggy looked into the deepest and bluest eyes that she had ever seen, but there was bitterness in them she decided. Accomplish things, he repeated and then laughed. Why bother to accomplish things when you don't have to? Oh, l want to be a success at something don't you? No, I can't say as I do. Oh, Peg said rather disgustedly. Now, l suppose that I have been tried, convicted, and executed in your mind? he said grimly. Not as bad as that. I merely thought, Here is a spoiled son of the rich. Faults--no ambition and too much money. Peggy said unkindly. A deep red spread over the boy's features. So sorry to bore you with the tale of my young life, he replied sarcastically. Peggy laughed, Don't be angry. By the way, I'm your neighbor, Peggy Davidson. I'm Kurt Forander, and are you going to live here? he inquired eagerly. Yes, answered Peggy, and I intend to make our living here. Make your living on an acre of land? he said incredulously. Yes, Peggy replied, amused. I'm turning the acre into a poultry farm. A poultry farm adioining the Colonel's rose garden! he exclaimed and burst into a loud shout of laughter. Save some of the laughter until tomorrow when the carpenters arrive to build the chicken coops, Peggy advised as she turned, whistled to her dog, and walked towards her house. Two weeks later Pegy took a very business-like letter from the mail box which informed her that her house had been sold as the Colonel himself, taking his morning ride, approached. Miss Davidson, l believe, he inquired politely. Yes, Peggy said. Miss Davidson, I am your new landlord and l do not like chickens. Those confounded roosters of yours would waken the dead, he said bluntly. Peggy held her anger, quickly deciding that sweetness might have more effect on the gruff, old gentleman. I'm so sorry if they have disturbed you, sir. if the chickens aren't gone in two weeks, I will have to ask you to leave and may those ear-splitting roosters be the first to go. Then the Colnoel rode on. Peggy stood by the gate, watching his retreating figure. Suddenly her eyes glowed, and a smile crept into her face. Diplomacy, Peggy, she said aloud, the gruff old colonel's one weak spot is his son, who is on your side. Beginning this afternoon Kurt Forander becomes a poultry man. After two weeks of working and sweating together over the chickens Kurt Forander was as interested in the welfare of the chickens as she. Now, she decided, is a good time to tell Kurt of his father's threats. Peggy told him of these threats and how much the farm meant to her and her mother. Kurt merely laughed and said, So the distinguished guests of the Foranders can't stand chickens? Well, we'll see about that. So long, Peggy. Kurt walked towards his home. Early the next morning when Kurt reported to work, he was accompanied by his father. The Colonel walked up to Peggy with his hand outstretched. Miss Davidson, I want to congratulate you, first, because you actually made my lazy son work, and, second, bceause you outwitted me. Peggy took the colonel's hand and smiled into the eyes which were kindly regarding her. Say this is great, Kurt said enthusiastically. Then the three of them, talking happily, walked towards Peggy's house for a belated breakfast. MARIORIE CAREY '40 WOODS AT NIGHT A pale moon shines through a mass of gigantic trees, sighing and whispering their tales of woe. At the feet of these trees inquisitive bushes gossip and pry, talking about each other in an old-maid-like fashion.

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RANDSBURG Once, several years ago I visited a real, honest-to-goodness gold-mining town. lt was Randsburg, California, situated on the Mojave Desert, and home town of one of the country's richest gold mines. We travelled through miles of sage, mesquite, cacti, and stunted cedar, passed through the town of Mojave, famed in many a story, and arrived in Randsburg rather late. That night we were unable to see much of the town which was to be our home for some time to come. In the morning we were all anxious to be up and off to the mine, but first the town took our atten- tion. lt was a real boom town , wide open and roaring when a strike was made, silent and almost deserted when the ore was panning slowly. From our windows we could see it all, with many, many miles of desert, a surrounding mountain range and the hole-in-the-ground that represented the Yellow Aster thrown in. A railroad made its meandering way to this blossom of the fair desert, bringing in once a week a mixed mail, freight and passenger train of ancient and unknown vintage. The town boasted a school with something like thirty students of assorted sizes, a church, a library, ll think the title was through courtesy onlyl, several stores, all with the false fronts shown in thrilling Westerns, and a small dingy place called a hotel. There was also a building which sold gasoline, but no one would make the mistake of calling it a filling station. During the day we hiked out to the mine, a distance of two or three miles. The air was as clear as crystal, and the spellbinding mountains took on different hues every time we glanced at them. Frightened jack-rabbitts scurried away from us, and once a rattler sounded his warning. The sage was dusty and nice smelling. Pieces of glass were a lovely shade of lavender, caused by long exposure in the sun, combined with the actions of radium in the soil. I loved every minute of that hike. Natives of the town told us the altitude was 3,000 feet and that the mountains rose 3,500 feet above the town. That, mind you, in the midst of one of America's most famous deserts. But the altitude wasn't the most surprising thing. During the night a raging blizzard hit the town, enveloping it in a thick, white blanket. Not long after the bliziard I had the bad luck to become ill, and so we had to leave Randsburg. In spite of all its peculiarities, I loved the town, and the desert cast its spell over me. Always since then I have longed to go back, Quien sabe? Perhaps someday I shall. ARLINE BARKER '4l INDIAN STREAM If one follows the worn, narrow path that starts at the corner of the East Meadow, he will come to a picturesque, cool brook that I have named Indian Stream. My reason for so naming it is that as the water flows, it seems to run silently along, like the careful, cautious steps of an Indian warrior. Indian Stream is surrounded by a small wood of pine and oak trees. The path stops abruptly at a spot under one of the tall oak trees. Under this tree is a large flat rock that serves me as a seat. On warm sum- mer days, I come to this spot and sit on that rock with a feeling of protection and contentedness as the tall, majestic forms whisper and sway above me. Usually I take along a fishing pole, and my patience is always rewarded with three or four trout. However, fish are not the only living things that interest me. Chipmunks and squirrels seem to use this spot for their rendezvous, also. They chatter and scold while jumping about on the stones and moss that form a bank along the shore of the stream. One August day when I sought my comforting hiding place, I noticed that a new woodland friend had joined my group. He was a timid creature, and at first darted into the thicket on my approach, but as the days went by, this little brown, white-tailed rabbit, would sit by and watch me with curious, snapping black eyes. I usually brought a lunch and tossed crumbs to the squirrels and Chipmunks, so on this day, I gave the new-comer a few. He took them with great enthusiasm, and I knew I had gained a new friend. As the months went by, I saw my stream hushed and stilled by the glistening smooth ice of the cold winter. Then in the spring the stream would once again be free, and gradually it would flow undisturbed over the stones. I enjoy this season most, because the brook in springtime brings a sense of life awakening, serene, and steadfast. Again Summer, with her soothing, warm sunlight and beautiful wild flowers, would make my secluded spot seem like a peaceful little world, shut off from the dusty, suffocating atmosphere of the cities and towns that seemed so far away. I am quite sure, if one does follow that path at the corner of East Meadow, he will spend a restful day while his cares and worries flow along with the rippling water, until they disappear around the bend, to be lost soon in the mighty ocean. CLAIRE BOUSQUET '40 - f I-.de f-A -it 5