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

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THE CRIMSON AND GRAY MAY JOY GO WITH YOU BARBARA SHIPPEE ' 47 Janie Myers is a very likeable young lady. Perhaps it would be better not to use the word lady, for Janie particularly dislikes this term. It ' s not that she never intends to be ladylike, but her mother, to quote janie, is always harping on it, and it ' s getting to be a rather distasteful word. So let us call Janie a rather likeable and remarkable young girl. The ad- jective remarkable is put in as an afterthought, for janie has several characteristics that just aren ' t found in the ordinary run of girls. Let us look in on Janie to find just how she differs from other girls of her age. We find her going home from school in a happy frame of mind. This is her usual mood and can be brought on by, well, anything and everything, from having jimmy smile at her, to getting a 90 in a history test. Janie skipped excitedly over to her ciosest chum, Molly, and demanded, What ' s wrong with waiting for me? I can run just so fast. Can ' t help it, someone told me Bill Brownez ' s talking to Betty at the corner, and I ' ve got to see it for myself, Molly mumbled. Hopping into the street to see around the corner, Janie declared, There ' s no one there. Huh, I knew I should ' ve run! If you had, I ' d ' ve never forgiven you. ' Just like last time when ... Janie interrupted hurriedly, ' Oh, you know I could never really hate you. She kicked open the white gate in front of the house and whistled shrilly. Now where in the heck ' s Sparky, she mumbled to herself. Bye, Molly. S ' long. Muffled yelps came to her ears when she banged open the front door. Striding into the next room, she threw her books onto a table and demanded, Just what ' s going on? I washed Sparky just last Saturday. Poor Sparky doesn ' t like it, do you? We ' re having guests and Sparky must be clean, declared Mom. That ' s no reason to bother poor Sparky — Oh! Oh! No! Not Aunt Matilda! Say no! Well, yes . . . Cousin Wilbur, too. What! Not that . . . that thing! I won ' t stand for it! I ' ll leave home! Jane Ann Myers! Co to your room until you get over those ideas. When Pop arrived with a brand new Frankie record, he loudly inquired for janie, hoping to sur- prise her. Mom shushed him and indicated the piles of luggage. Pop nodded sympathetically. He knew exactly where to go. Knocking upon the door, he explained his mission. Janie opened the door a crack, Give. Later on, Aunt Matilda rushed to Mom and asked where that horrible noise was coming from. Wilbur announced, It seems to indicate that Cousin Jane is satisfying some of her queer taste in music. Why, I received the impression that she was out, this from Aunt Matilda. Mom uncomfortably murmured that she guessed Janie was around somewhere. She gave Pop a murderous look. Well, why didn ' t she come to greet us as a well- manned young lady ought? Perhaps she didn ' t know you had come, Pop put in apologetically. I, ah, saw her peeking out the window, Wil- bur announced in a satisfied manner. That settled it. Mom went to the stairs and called, Jane, come right down. No, Jane shouted back, I haven ' t gotten over those ideas! ' Jane Ann, if you don ' t come right down . . . To what ideas was she referring? Wilbur was interested. Some little fancy of hers, I presume, Pop said. Mary, you shouldn ' t allow a girl her age to in- dulge in useless fancies, Aunt Matilda said to Mom. I sometimes think I can ' t manage her. Think! You don ' t manage her at all! Wilbur put in Mayby psy . . psyco . . . oh, well, something might help. Psychology, dear, Aunt Matilda added absent- mindedly. She stood thinking. Finally she walked up the stairs. With a Heaven help her! Pop sank into a chair. Wilbur glared at him. Aunt Matilda approached the door and said sweet- ly, Janie, don ' t you want to kiss your Auntie? Nope! Well! Aunt Matilda tried again, ' Why not, jane? ' Cause I got — I think I got somethin ' catching — whoopin ' cough, maybe. Well, of all things! Mary, why didn ' t ycu tell me? Wilbur, precious, get the luggage — hurry, Wil- bur! When the flurry was over, Pop heaved a sigh. He heard music. Jane, he ordered, Get into bed! Oh, I feel better, now. She came jumping down the stairs, Cot anything good to eat, Mom? Mom explained to Pop that Janie wasn ' t sick at all and Pop had a choking spell. Jane solicitously inquired if he felt all right. Suddenly she shrieked and rushed upstairs. Jane! I haven ' t changed my ideas, yet. You ' re forgiven, gasped Pop. You see, Jane is unusual. Not every girl would have dared to do this to an irate aunt. But — well, that ' s Janie. THE SONG OF DEATH BETTE HOWARD ' 47 Deep in the heart of a dark jungle, bathed in pale moonlight that cast eerie shadows about, a large, black figure crouched in a nearby Cypress. Not far off beneath the tangled undergrowth of jungle vines, a man squatted on his heels. His hand tightly clutched a revolver and in his belt, a shiny, sharp-edged knife glittered in the moonlight. His eyes shone in the blackness like two pieces of burn- ing coal. The figure in the Cypress tree was a lynx, ready to spring at the least movement of the native if he dared move into sight. The animal was black and slinky, and the tip of his tail moved ever so slightly. The native crept silently from under the shelter, his gun still in his hand. A twig snapped and the native stopped short. The animal must have sensed the tenseness of the moment also because he moved a little closer into a better springing position. Far away an owl whoo ' d softly. Voodoo drums be- gan to beat out a wierd, mystic, steady turn turn. It was the song of death. As if it were a cue, the lynx leaped down on the man. A loud anguished cry for help rose in the na- tive ' s throat but was checked as quickly as it had started. A gun shot echoed in the night. A low growl escaped from Ihe animal ' s throat. Half an hour later the animal was leisurely washing his paws and licking his chops in satisfaction. What a good meal !

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DECEMBER, 1943 from his shiny black navy shoes to his brown curly hair. Her mouth slowly turned from its scared look to a happy little smile. As she flung herself toward him and crawled up into his lap, their gray eyes met in the same crinkling way, and she said, Hi, Daddy. Will you take me fishing? LIT ABNER YOKUM THOMAS O ' BRIEN, ' 46 Li ' l Abner Yokum is one of the nicest people I ' ve never met. I ' ve never met him because he exists only in the imagination of Al Capp, his cartoonist creator. Nevertheless, he should be the ideal of every American boy. It is the responsib.l.ty of each of us to make up for the fact that there is no real Li ' l Abner. His appearance and environment are unusual. He is a big, clumsy, powerful built hillbilly with an open, contented face. Dogpatch, his natural habitat, is overflowing with high octane local color. Within its boundaries may be found the skunk rendering works, Cousin Weakeyes, Hairless Joe, Lonesome Polecat, Moonbeam McSwine, and a mysterious mons- ter called It , just to name a few. The Dogpatch census taker went out of his head trying to decide whether or not some of the inhabitants counted as human beings. But Li ' l Abner ' s charm is an abstract quality and has nothing to do with appearance or background. When he refers to himself as a sweet inner-cent child, he himself gives us an accurate character sketch of Li ' l Abner. Mammy Yokum ' s boy is innocence personified. His complete childlike faith in human nature is constantly getting him into difficulties. After unintentionally causing someone some trivial trouble, he imagines himself to be a cruel inhoomin monster. The intrigues and shrewd dealings of the outer world invariably draw from him the comment, amoozin but confoozin. Li ' l Abner is obviously not impressed by our worldly social system. To the best of my knowledge, he has never, in his life, done anything mean. Meanness is something be- yond his imagination, something he cannot under- stand or tolerate. When Fearless Fosdick, his fav- orite comic strip character, is being done wrong by, he is unable to eat or sleep until the culprit is behind the bars. Nor is the Yokum boy cursed with clever- ness or brilliance. He is happy and worries about nothing, mainly on account of ah don ' t know nothing. His three great loves are for Mammy, Pappy and pok chops. The first two show his faith in family life; the third shows good judgment. Girls terrify him and he consistantly avoids them. Dogpatch resi- dents, such as Hairless Joe or Lonesome Polecat, who would amuse or frighten us, are accepted as common- place by Li ' l Abner. He does not discriminate against those who do not completely qualify as members of the human race. On the other hand he does occa- sionally chuckle, How ridikulus, at some phase of what we consider commonplace. I can imagine him in a group of teen-agers. He would be polite, friendly, bashful, eager to learn, unable to dislike anyone, and thoroughly disliked. With his good nature, contentment, innocence, faith in human nature, and lack of prejudice and amoition he is not designed for any place in the world but Dog- patch. Nevertheless,. I can ' t help thinking that, im- practical as he is, he is much better than what we consider successful. If I were not committed to a policy of being me, I would most certainly want to be Li ' l Abner. THOUGHTS ON THANKSGIVING MARGARET JONES ' 46 What is Thanksgiving? One interpretation is that Thanksgiving ' s a holiday on which we give thanks for all that we have and all that we have been spared. It is a golden brown turkey lying in state on a large platter. It is creamy white mashed potatoes dotted with butter and perhaps sprinkled wih paprika to lend a festive air. It is orange squash and buttery onions, pumpkin and mince pies, and nuts and candy. The un- comfortable feeling afterwards is part of the celebra- tion and is taken in its stride. A NIGHT WITH A PURR-SIAN PRINCESS ROGER WOODBURY ' 47 What a time I ' ll have tonight, thought Willie as he thoughtfully wiped off his razor. His morale sored as he buzzed around dressing for the evening ' s masquerade. This particular masquerade was an event that didn ' t happen every day. This was the night when the buoyant effect of a concealing costume and a latherless shave was prompting him to his prowess with the weaker sex. About seven o ' clock his pal, Dinny, tooted for him and the two went off to the party, Dinny ' s car turning up a cloud of dust and a terrible racket. ' We ' re here. Let ' s go over to see Benny. He seems to be talking with some girls. I wonder where Charlie is tonight? Oh well! I can see that my work is cut out for me right here. So without delay they made their way over to Benny ' s position and were in- troduced. Willie asked the Persian Princess to dance while Dinny waltzed off with the little Chinese girl. Soon they were fast friends. As a matter of fact they went out together to a drugstore. The princess ate a tre- mendous banana split with ease. She even danced a little awkwardly, and not once did she retire to the girls ' room. All of these went unnoticed by Willie who was totally enraptured by the glowing charms of that enchanting thing, this woman to whom he had beaten all of the other fellows. Being together passed the evening away quickly. By now most of the others had taken off their masks; but, under the spell of her charm, to Willie, she re- mained unknown. All good things must come to an end, it is said, and this one was going fast. If he didn ' t act soon, all would be lost. After a quick struggle with his courage, he finally blurted out his request to see her home. Much to his surprise she was visibly pleased. Once again his head began to swim while the most pure pleasant confusion held him in the spell of her magic. As they strolled down the long street, sweet nothings poured in a steady stream from his lips. Was this really Willie? It was. As they reached her front porch, Willie in his only conscious act in hours noticed that seventy-six was the same house number as Charlie ' s. Charlie, no longer able to contain himself burst right out laughing. Willie couldn ' t talk. He was hot, cold, mad, and felt like fighting, screaming, and cry- ing all at the same time. Over the porch railing went Charlie. Directly behind came Willie. A few quick trips around the house and then a mad scramble on the ground. A fine way to treat a Persian Princess, said Char- lie still helpless with gales of laughter. Aahh, but this one lives at seventy-six Ashland Street, taunted Willie from his position on the top of the heap.

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DECEMBER, 1945 MY IDEAL DAY RITA LEDUC ' 46 My ideal day is a day on the farm. I rise by the gentle crow of roosters, approximately at four o ' clock. I then begin to dress. I put on a pair of overalls, a plaid shirt, a farmer ' s hat, and down 1 go to break- fast. On the table before me are stacks of pancakes piled so high almost to reach the ceiling. After eat- ing about a dozen, I am off to work My first job is to milk the cows. With the help of my uncle and quite a few helpers, also after an hour ' s time, I have the honor of saying that I have milked a cow. My next job is to feed the chickens. That, of course, doesn ' t take too much of my time. The next thing I do is watch, not help, my uncle clean the barn. Soon I leave. By this time the clock has reached twelve and I ' m off to dinner. As I get close to the house, I can smell the southern fried chicken my aunt has pre- pared for a hard-working girl like me. The afternoon is full of fun. I go horseback rid- ing and swimming. Toward the end of the day my uncle tries to teach me to drive the tractor. I am in bed about nine o ' clock. What a strenuous day, but still my ideal day! MY IDEAL DAY RUDY DiGRECORIO ' 46 My ideal day would begin somewhere from half- past eleven to about quarter to twelve, when the pangs of hunger strike me most. I get up, go down to my swimming pool (where the water is always kept to my taste in temperature), take a few dives, wake up, and go to my special room, where I press a button and inside of two seconds am drier than a dried fish. I call Jonah (my most faithful servant) and ask him to get my favorite dinner suit. After dressing (Jonah doing most of the dressing) I get into my elevator, and James (the elevator boy) brings me to my breakfast room (a special room for each meal) . I then get into my super-strato-hy (one of my own inventions) and go to the Madison Square Car- den where my very good friend Rocky Craziano is fighting Freddie Cochrane for the middleweight crown. At fight time, much to my — and the crowd ' s — ■ dismay, Rocky is unable to fight. I, being, always in the best physical condition, would render services in my friend Rocky ' s place. Whereas the betting changes from even money to 1 6 to 1 against me, I would surprise the crowd by toying with the champ in the first round, and then come out of the ring in the second round the new champion.. I then get back into my super-strato-hy and fly home — unde- feated champion of the world! MY IDEAL DAY BESSIE MICHAEL ' 46 Being a devoted student of both history and litera- ture, I have always been interested in the events and personalities of the past. Therefore, as you can foresee, my version of an ideal day is going to be wholly fan- tastic and imaginary. On the morning of this ideal day, Father Time and I are just about ready to push back the clock several hundred years to begin our romantic adventure. Our first stop alights us in the midst of Robin Hood and his Merry Men in the beautiful Sherwood Forest of England. We are, fortunately, just in time to join Robin on one of his daily hunts. Friar Tuck, however, is too busy devouring a chicken leg to participate in the regular activities. After the hunt, we resume our journey and reach Queen Elizabeth ' s palace to witness one of her daily tantrums with the members of the court. The old girl ' s fits of temper are nothing new to modern his- tory. However, she calmed down long enough for us to have lunch. This time we dropped in on one of the great King Arthur ' s tournaments. Sir Launcelot, his prize knight, was giving his opponent a terrific beating and was, at the same time, holding the undivided attention of the audience. True, reading it is fun, but imagine the thrill of seeing it! After this magnificent feat we journeyed across the Atlantic to colorful climax of our journey. This was President Washington ' s ball in the White House. Here, amidst frills and flounces, tails and buckled shoes, powdered wigs, and lords and ladies dancing to the divine music of the Minute Waltz, one could truly say that it was the most breathtaking sight to behold. This is my version of an ideal day. True, it is too unbelievable to be real, but it is fun to imagine. In short, it ' s fantastic, but nice! MY IDEAL DAY LUCILLE LUSICNAN 46 My idea of an ideal day is to go off for a tramp in the country with a book of my favorite poems un- der my arm. I find a shady elm and sprawl out be- neath it. I take a big rosy apple from my pocket and shine it until it gleams. I sink my teeth into it. Delicious! The atmosphere is quiet. The only sound is the distant whirr of a mowing machine. As I lie there, I look at the clouds and make pic- tures out of them. That one above those trees looks like a giant turkey ' s head. Enough of this day dreaming. I open my book to page 34. That is my favorite poem; the dog-eared and fingermarked page tells that while I read the poem. It fills me with a sense of quiet. I ' m contented just to sit and read poems all day. I laugh at the funny ones and sometimes when I ' m in the right mood, work up enough emotion to cry at the extremely sad ones. The leaves are beginning to stir. I can see the farmer plodding his weary way home. The sun is low. It is time for me to go. I must go back into reality again. THRILL OF A LIFETIME ROGER DION ' 47 It happened a year ago when I was sixteen and a sophomore in high school that great thrill of a life- time came, that of going on a vacation by myself, un- accompanied by any older person. I had dreamed of this for many weeks, even months. In fact, I gave so much attention to the idea that at night I used to wake up and not be able to regain sleep. Some- times I even had nightmares about the trip. Days of anxiety and careful planning soon passed, and finally the day came — the day when I was to start. It was a beautiful morning. Although the glori- ous sun shone directly into my bedroom window as it gradually appeared, I had a terribly hard time wak- ing up. Roger, get up, eagerly shouted my mother for the third time. (Continued on Page 16