Wells High School - Crimson and Gray Yearbook (Southbridge, MA)

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THE CRIMSON AND GRAY LITERATURE SOMETIMES I WONDER Mary Rizio ' 40 Before the world found out That we needed an education, Before Columbus accidentally Discovered another nation, Before the Pilgrims landed Upon a land so new, What did the teachers teach To boys and girls like me and you? Before the French decided To have a revolution, Before old Charley Darwin Found the law of evolution, Before Henry the Eighth cut off His last wife ' s head And Juliet awoke to find That Romeo was dead What did the children have to know In those years so long ago? I would have liked to go to school When all the world was new, With English, Math and Chemistry I ' d have had naught to do But still if they insist upon My acquiring an education, I ' d rather be alive today Than in the future generations. A PANORAMIC VIEW OF PARRAL Barbara L. Morse ' 40 Chug, chug, toot, toot, the end of the line! Can you imagine getting off a train at four-thirty in the morning in strange, far away Mexico to find yourself face to face with a stone wall? Well, this is just what I did in leaving the train at Jiminez to go to Parral. The trip by car through Chihuahua, Mexico, with my uncle and several friends, was one of the very vivid memories of my trip. Beneath our feet the unpaved Mexican road; over our heads the blue, heavenly blue sky lighted by a full moon. The air became rarefied as we climbed a mountain to reach Parral, six thousand feet above sea level. As we climbed I be- came ever more conscious that the roads were two paths wide enough to accommodate one car. Very bumpy they were going through rivers and aroyers. Winding, twisting, turning, they brought me to Par- ral sea sick and tired. Before long, however, I forgot the annoyances of the trip and was ready to enjoy my summer with my uncle in the small Mexican town. Parral has a population of about forty thousand people. The most numerous houses are small adobe huts of only one room where mother, father, children, pigs, cows, and chickens all live together. In these houses, casas, no windows or chimneys allow smoke to escape. The one door frequently is so low that a person of normal size has to stoop in order to get through. On the clothes line hang three shirts, a crimson red, royal blue, and flaming yellow. The houses of the better class of Mexicans are made from adobe but on a much larger scale. Upon entering, one immediately finds oneself in an open court called a Patio where flowers are planted in a square of earth. From a tile walk around the garden all rooms of the house open. The rooms do not open upon each other as they do in our houses so that when it rains one may get wet crossing from the kitchen to the dining room. In the mining camp where I stayed, the houses are built just like those in the United States. The costume of the native women consists of a black dress and veil. Those who can afford to buy their clothes from the States dress like Americans. The party dress consists of a bright red skirt glitter- ing with spangles, a green belt, and a white blouse adorned with little beads. Around her neck the Mexican girl wears a string of red, white, and green beads to represent the flag. Her hair is braided and hangs down her back. The man generally wears over- alls, dirty and patched with every color of the rain- bow. Shoes, called Huaraches, are made from an old rubber tire fastened to the foot by rope. The education of the people is very limited. Most of them cannot read or write their names. The richer class have sent their children to the States to be educated and they are very brilliant students when given a chance. The Mexican native speaks Spanish. The peasants, the men of middle class, and the wealthy group each uses a different cast of Spanish. The men in Parral work chiefly in the silver mines at La Prieta where manual labor is required for blast- ing and loading ore. In farming, done on a very small scale, very primitive plows are pulled by little burros. The most popular occupation is begging. Because I was a tourist who didn ' t understand very much Span- ish, I wasn ' t bothered by them. Perhaps after reading this you get the picture of a typical Mexican village. MEXICO Shirley Austin ' 40 Mexico is a land of restful bliss and strange en- chantment. In the older sections of Mexico the people haven ' t changed their mode of living for a thousand years. They still farm with wooden plows, build huts of reeds roofed with banana leaves, and use tiny bur- ros as beasts of burden. Because Mexico is so different from anything we know, we are deeply moved by things that happen. We are lead to believe that its people are living in the past of the Old World. By the following example I will attempt to show that the Mexican people are still under the influence of the days of chivalry. Evening was drawing near and the setting sun be- ginning to make its exit made the picture more beau- tiful than ever before. Suddenly two men stepped out of the shadows and into the center of the bull-fighting arena. A mixed group of thirty-five thousand people, made up most- ly of Mexicans and Americans, rose to their feet, stamped, shouted, and vocally tore down the arena. Then everyone sat down and we got a look at the two men. The outstanding one was a tall, young matador. His shiny, black, wavy hair reflected the last few golden rays of the sun. His costume was of pink satin, covered with black lace. He had on pink stock- ings and black patent leather shoes. His small, three- cornered hat was being held tightly in the fair hands of a lovely senorita. His tall, well built figure, tow- ered over the withered body of an old man.

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NOVEMBER 1939 EDITORIALS AMERICAN YOUTH COMPARED WITH EUROPEAN Lucille Dubreuil ' 40 It ' s getting cooler and cooler out every day. American mothers are beginning to store away their children ' s light summer clothes, and to ransack attic trunks and closets for fall and winter clothes. American boys and girls are digging up earmuffs, mittens, and kerchiefs; still others are digging out old faithful , the raccoon coat. Why all this? The football season is on. Coaches are seeking good fighting blood, strong vitality, and most of all, good sportsmanship in all the boys who are anxious to conquer opponents for dear old Alma Mater. Girls, either celebrating victories or anticipating winter ' s fun, are planning skating parties, dancing parties, sleighing and skiing parties to entertain our gridiron heroes and to show the latter how much they are appreciated; all parties end, most likely, with a little snack in said girls ' living rooms, where various groups gather round the piano, close to the warmth of the fireplace for more mirth and hilarity, for, this is the life. Soon, football victories will crowd war news off the front pages of newspapers. All America will be clamoring to know who ' s who in that fascinating, fast-moving game, which draws such large crowds to its gates. How disillusioning is war! How many occasions will the European youth have to rejoice in warm liv- ing rooms? Consider what he will be doing while the American youth is going through his never-to-be-for- gotten and happiest stage. While our boys are exercising to limber up their muscles for the games, Europe ' s boys are exercising their aim in an attempt to save bullets, and at the same time, destroy mankind. While our boys are building up resistance on sound, healthy food, the boys across the sea are skimping and saving on war rations. Europe doesn ' t know how many days, months or years she will be fighting in this struggle which the foolish, senseless desire of one crazed man, pitted against the world, has created. Young German, English, and French boys should have a right to free, happy, healthy youth. Those years, such short ones, are so important in preparing youth for manhood and the responsibility of work- ing and striving to give their own sons a good start in life. War certainly isn ' t a good start. And, certainly, scenes of bloodshed and massacre, of half-starved boys in ragged uniforms, stricken with cold and un- dernourishment, walking along battlefields, dazed with the sight of strewn bodies, and half-crazed, do not present pretty pictures to a man ' s mind, as memories. He should have memories of course, but war shouldn ' t furnish them. His memories should be of happy school days, of days filled with excitement in sight of great crowds cheering hard-working football teams on to victory. Pain and effort, hardship and sorrow have built America into our fine, sound democracy, and have made it a nation admired and looked up to by all other countries. Let us appreciate our ancestors ' work and renounce all talk of war. SUBTLE THUMB-TWIDDLING FOR THE SUMMER MONTHS Edward LeClair ' 40 The purpose of this paper is to show how, in various ways, the summer months may be fitted with tlhe wings of Mercury so that they flit by with the great- est of ease while appearing to be used in gainful em- ployment. Of the several ways in which this may be done, three appeal to me particularly. They are: reading a great deal of light literature, listening to all the music programs on the radio, and putting off my one big summer project everyday. The latter, in- cidentally, is my favorite. You can read light literature with little concentra- tion and still be able to get frhe essence of the story (if you wish to). This,, however, is not necessary; you can allow your eyes merely to slide over each page, meanwhile pondering on the outcome of this year ' s pennant race or the prospects of a good Wells football team this fall. If asked why you are reading so much, you can tell your questioner that you have been tipped off that next year ' s English class requires a great deal of book reviewing and that you are pre- paring while you have time on your hands. Listening to music programs also requires little con- centration but the music serves as a very good back- ground for such philosophic thoughts as, I wonder if Margie (or June, or Tom, or Dick) loves me as much as I think she (or he) does, or, I wonder if I ' ll be able to go to that Yankee-Red Sox game (or Jane ' s House-party) next week. If implored by a harassed mother to, Shut off that radio, I can ' t hear myself think, your answer may be that you have been ask- ed to submit a report to the first meeting of the Glee Club on Music Trends During the Summer Months. Putting off my one big summer project is, to my mind, the best method of all three — it makes the time pass faster than any of the others. The first step is this — as soon as school closes in June, decide on some project for the summer, such as writing a book, painting a picture, or making an inlaid check- erboard for Uncle Tom ' s birthday in September. The next thing to do is to contrive to be busy during the day to make it impossible for you to start your pro- ject. Then at night as you march off to your trundle bed, resolve to start your project on the morrow. Re- sult: suddenly September is upon you and the project is unfinished, yea, even unstarted, and you wonder what happened to July and August. Ah well, next year will bring another summer to loaf away. Next year try these and I guarantee that they ' ll work. Incidentally, you won ' t be able to tell me of your progress, I ' m going to Colorado next summer.

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NOVEMBER 1939 The man was well into his seventies, but one could hardly understand how his shriveled body could have lasted that long. He had on an old, ragged overcoat that hung nearly to his ankles. His eyes were dim and a few wisps of white hair fell lazily over his wrinkled brow. In one hand he clutched an old top-hat. The strong arm of the young man circled the older one ' s waist and together they walked out to the center of the arena. When they reached the center, they turned and faced the crowd. The young man started to speak in a low but strong voice. He was telling us a story about the man at his side. He told how the old man had once been a famous bull-fighter. But one day there had been an accident and the bull gored the fighter with his horns. Since that day he had never been able to fight another bull, but instead turned to teaching young boys this art. He would take no pay for his work and as a result was now penniless and needed help. The young matador had said no more than this, when out of the clouds seemed to come a shower of silver pesos. Then a mass of young matadors, pick- adors, toreadors, and guards came out into the arena and picked up the money. When this was done, they poured all of it into the old man ' s hat. The old man could stand it no longer. He broke down and cried in the arms of the young matador. Tears sprang into the eyes of the thirty-five thousand onlookers. The eyes of the matador were also glis- tening with tears when he thanked everyone for their generosity. The crowd was quiet and reverent before this speci- men of defeated mankind and as the two, old and young, left the arena, they left a trail of hearts full of pity and sorrow for the once famous bull-fighter. To me this was a very impressing sight and it brought to my attention the fact that throughout Mexico similar incidents occurred. This gave me a deep and profound feeling of gratitude to the people of Mexico, for making me realize what is lost in the hustle-bustle of people in the northern countries. THUNDER THIEVES Barbara L. D ' Arcey ' 40 Blanche and Beano sat comfortably relaxed on the somewhat battered porch glider, sipping lemonade. One trouser leg of Beano ' s immaculate white flannels was thrown over the arm of the swing. A lock of his flopping hair had an aggravating tendency to tickle his eyebrow and at the moment he was trying to sneak up on it, tackle it, and hurl it back to where it be- longed. But cowlicks are cowlicks. He gave up with a sigh and left the lock dangling neatly between his eyes. Now and then he would glance at it reproach- fully, his eyes crossed, and try futilely to blow it back from his forehead. Finally he abandoned this pastime to say, Yeah, I gotta take it on the lam now, and meet Bud down at the court. We ' ve got a date with the new bundle of golden sunshine that breezed into town a couple of weeks ago. Boy, she ' s a knock-out, isn ' t she! Blanche said nothing. She didn ' t think Beverly Urban was so wonderful — just an overdecked fudge sundae that sat back looking sweet and demure with a come-hither eye which said, Look, I ' m free, and I ' m the most delicious, most appealing bit of sweet- ness that you have ever tasted. Say, what ' s the matter with you, piped Beano suddenly. You haven ' t said five words to me since I came! Then with a quirky smile and a sly drawl, Are you by any chance jealous of Bev? I didn ' t think I rated with you. Blanche boiled! How could boys be so mean! Aloud she said in a nonchalant tone, Why, Beano, you conceited thing to think I am jealous of Beverly because of you. You know lots of other boys have transferred their time and attention to this new bombshell. In fact, all the boys at Seabright seem to swarm to Urban ' s porch. And with a shrug of her shoulders she rose and poured more lemonade. You ' d better hurry or you ' ll be late for your much looked forward to appointment. Becno was squelched; moreover he was hurt. Blanche could see this by the droop of his left shoulder as he sauntered off towards the tennis court. His shoulder always drooped when he was disturbed. Blanche could practically read Beano. She had known him as far back as she could remember and was very fond of him. She had crushed him with her haughty attitude and she hated herself for it. She did so want to call him back to apologize. Her pride interfered, however, and so did Margy Blake who appeared at that moment. Margy, a flippant young red-head, was Blanche ' s erstwhile companion. You look as though you had been sucking a lemon! observed Marge as she plopped wearily into the glider. Why the sour mood? Ah — but wait! Don ' t tell me, I know! I feel the same way and so do all the girls in Seabright. Do you realize that one, Bevely Urban, is monopolizing all the male business lately? Moodily she munched a cookie. Talk about rushes! I ' m going to do something if I have to ex- haust all my mental capacity for thought in the attempt! And she tossed her flaming red hair with deter- mination, raised her arm above her head in a gesture of triumph, the half eaten cookie still perched be- tween her fingers, and stood like a statesman about to solve a mighty problem. The only way to stop the progress of one plan is to create another one better and we ' ve got to create that plan before it ' s too late. The cherubic Machia- velli continued, It takes poison to kill poison! The gold rush of 1939 — and the entire feminine sex will be crushed by trampling feet if we don ' t decompose a certain gold coated alloy consisting of copper and zinc — brass for short — and show the boys that she ' s not genuine! Blanche felt too horrid to speak. The world was crumbling around her and all she could utter was a depressed sigh. Marg languidly moved toward the lemonade and poured herself a wee bit, which she slowly sipped. Then she sauntered affectedly across the veranda, her hand on her hip, so characteristic of Beverly. Her too, too sweetish voice addressed an imaginary crea- tion. Oh, Hallo Bubby, you look so nice in that charming suit. I certainly wouldn ' t at all mind being your girl ! Her voice suddenly changed and she spat passion- ately, Can you imagine! That ' s what I heard the little cream puff say to Bub yesterday. She was hang- ing on his arm all the way home from church, and not at all like an icicle either! And Bub liked it! He was oozing with pride! I can ' t see what the boys see in her! She can ' t swim. She can ' t do any of the things that you and I can do. But she certainly succeeds in drawling her way to their stupid hearts! Let ' s go commit suicide! or murder! I ' ve got it, Blanche broke in, I ' ve found the solution! We still have a chance to get back some of that male business if my plan works. She jumped up. It came to me in a flash while you were mimic- ing Beverly. I ' ll call up all the girls and get them to come over here; then I ' ll explain!