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

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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

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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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THE CRIMSON AND GRAY v u r REVIEWS RTRuOLAV BLACK BOY By Richard Wright Reviewed by ROBERT LANCEVIN ' 47 BLACK BOY is the story of the turbulent youth of Richard Wright, a southern boy. Hard times, the separation of his mother and father, the death of near relatives and the resultant shifting from town to town, from city to city, all caused him much dis- tress in his early years. The theme of the biography is the author ' s con- viction that he should exist as a distinct individual, not merelv as one of the many southern blacks . He is constantly forced by his own relatives to con- ceal his personality and his intelligence. They told him it was not good for black boy to try to get ahead ... he should be meek and mild, and even servile. Richard Wright was not content to be a nobody. He wanted to be a man and not a mere flunky. He was fired from numerous jobs because he wanted to get ahead and was often told to be content with what he had or get out, Around whites he was supposed to be some sort of automaton, a robot, a mechanical man. He was not to think or even feel. As he puts it, the safety of my life in the South depended on how well I concealed from all whites what I felt. Throughout the book Richard Wright keeps your nerves taut. He takes you in and out of the many predicaments which dotted his life. He makes you feel what he felt. His anger at being kept down, his inability to understand this attitude, his supreme wish to be a man by men ' s standards are all there. He concludes his book with these words: With ever watchful eyes and bearing scars, visible and in- visible, I headed North, full of a hazy notion that life could be lived with dignity, that the personalities of others should not be violated, that men should be able to confront other men without fear or shame, and that if men were luck in their living on earth, they might win so me redeeming meaning for their having struggled and suffered here beneath the stars. TWO NEW BOOKS Reviewed by ROGER HEBERT ' 46 The success stories of great negro personalities, whom we are glad to call Americans, are presented in two well written books: GREAT AMERICAN NE- GROES by Ben Richardson and WE HAVE TOMOR- ROW by Arna Bontempts. The former book includes people of such diversi- fied talents as George Washington Carver, scientist; Paul Robeson, actor; Joe Louis, fighter; and Marian Anderson, singer. In WE HAVE TOMORROW are twelve lesser known American negroes who greatly dared and greatly achieved. Included are Col. Benjamin Davis, Jr., who for a year was given the silent treatment of West Point; Horace Clayton, who discovered col- ored boys don ' t attend the school dances in Seattle; Mildred Blount, who as a child worked so hard she fell asleep in church; the phenomenal Hazel Scott, who overcame many obstacles to obtain her remark- able success at the piano in the blending of modern jazz with the classics — and others. Many people in the United States today have little realization of the ability and courage of the American negro. If Americans read these books, they would appreciate the colored race to a greater extent. Ap- preciation would mean less prejudice and wider tol- erance. DAYS AND NIGHTS By Konstantine Simonov Reviewed by KATHLEEN BROUSSEAU ' 47 Konstantine Simonov brings to us the tremendous struggle of the Russians to hold burning Stalingrad from the clutches of the powerful Nazi war machine during the turning tide of the war. Simonov, war correspondent, poet, playwright, as well as most suc- cessful Russian novelist, has written a truly magnifi- cent military novel with his own extensive experience as the background of the battle of Stalingrad. The battle — one of the most murderous yet courageous battles — of the Russians to hold their line and halt the Germans ' onward rush before they could reach the Volga. Here are seventy days and nights with Saburov, war-toughened Red Army officer, fighting his way from Odessa and Moscow to Stalingrad, as he and his battalion struggle through the shell- blocked streets of smoking ashes and ruins to win back three apartment buildings; we cross the frozen Volga, black and treacherous with bombholes, while Nazi 88 ' s roared overhead; mortars are dragged through open spaces alive with flying shrapnel and the deadly German cross-fine. Three times Saburov crawls through the German night patrol on to the Volga. The battle surges from street to street, from build- ing to building. Brave men live and die; and yet amid the holocaust that was Stalingrad, a Red Army nurse finds her way to Saburov. DAYS AND NIGHTS, writ ten in military language, is devoid of politics and propaganda. Konstantine Simonov has written a great Russian novel. THE RED PONY By John Steinbeck Reviewed by BEVERLY FOX ' 47 At last the master of such stirring novels as THE MOON IS DOWN has turned to a lighter mood and written something of interest to the younger set. THE RED PONY is the book — the author is John Steinbeck. jody wondered what he had done when his father called him that morning, and he never dreamed of the unexpected delight of the new red pony. The de- votion of the two increased every day, as Jody trained Gabilan into a fine pony. And when the two were separated by the pony ' s death, life didn ' t seem worth while. The stranger, Gitano, who came to the ranch where Jody lived because he had been born there, and wanted to die there, too, helped to relieve the unbearable ache of the days which followed. The news of the colt which was to be born soon brought a new joy to Jody, who was named sole owner of the yet unborn animal. After the days of tense waiting, which seemed eternity, the little black colt finally became a reality instead of living in Jody ' s dream. THE RED PONY is written in such an easy, charm- ing style that it appeals to everyone, regardless of age.