Westbrook High School - Blue and White Yearbook (Westbrook, ME)

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Westbrook High School I7 CW -A - 'rfb -s H 1 L I T E R A R Y Q 31 ' 7 5 THE STORY BEAUTIFUL High up on a sunny slope of the Alps stood a small log cabin. It was here that john Cummings lived. A shorttime before he had been one of the most promising authors of the day, whose books were widely read and admired. But rather would lx have had the criticisms than praises of the people, for he felt great dissatisfaction with the quality of his worky For years he had been seeking material to write his greatest work, his masterpiece. He was an idealist, and a firm believer in the beauty and pureness of the soul of man. But altho he made many attempts, the 'lStory Beautiful, as he had planned to name it, was still locked in his brain and would not unfold. At last his unrest and dissatisfaction turned to bitterness at his own helplessness, so he left the city and buried himself in the Swiss Mountains, still seeking that elusive quality, inspiration. Here far from the noise and clamour he spent long hours in thought and finally came to the con- clusion that he was at fault, that his own soul was too narrow and unenlightened to write such a story. Relieved at having found the trouble he procured ponderous volumes on the human soul and long essays on religion and the ideal life, seeking to enrich his mind with deeper knowledge. So engrossed did he become in his task that he rarely left the cabin, save when necessity de- manded. 'He forgot the glories of the sunrise and the beauty of the nature world around him, that he had so loved. Even the bright sunlight stream- ing thru the window interrupted his train of thought and so annoyed him that he turned his chair away. At last feeling sure that the story in his brain was ready to form itself into words, he seized pen and paper, preparing to write. Feverishly his pen traveled across the white sheet several times,- then stopped. With a jerk he recalled his mind which had strayed far from the thoughts on which he wanted to concentrate. In despair he threw down his pen. He was a failure! It was plain to him now that the literature-loving world would never read the Story Beautiful, for he could not reach the standard he had set for himself and combine the right thoughts to make it. Angrily he strode to the door and flinging it open, went into the forest. After walking along the shady path for some distance he seated himself discon- solately beside a joyous, splashing waterfall. But he only scowled at the noisy water for breaking the silence and impatiently uprooted a delicate blue wood-anemone, which seemed to smile gayly at him. Thru his brooding he suddenly became con- scious that the forest had grown curiously still. All things seemed hushed. As this thought came to him he heard a strain of sweet rnusic, consisting of a mixture of liquid bird notes and the laughter of brooks. Idly he wondered if some great violin- ist had wandered into the forest. But before he could hardly comment upon this amazing music it stopped as quickly as it had begun, and a clear rebuking voice nearby made him jump nervously. Turning he saw nothing until his gaze rested on the brook, which flowed from the waterfall. There reflected in the clear water was a blue anemone. Strangely, the center resembled the features of a fair maiden. As he gazed wonder- ingly, the voice again spoke. I am the Story Beautiful, it said, I and all the rest of this great forest. You sought for facts in your books that would give you inspiration to show to others the depth and beauty of a soul.

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The Blue fr VVhite JosEPH R. VVAITE College Course Joe Operetta C2j. Joe left us for a while, but like the bad penny he turned up again, and we sure do welcome him back to the fold. VVhat would the girls do without Joe to tease them? Favorite expression- Despondent. Pastime--Kidding the teachers. Ambition-To go to college. PIARRY S. VVALKER College Course Walk Harry belongs to the ranks of dashing blondes, and charms the ladies with his fair hair. We know he makes some brilliant recitations, only no one can hear him. Get a megaphone, Harry. Favorite expression- Hee, heef' Pastime-Chewing g111'l1. Ambition-To make himself heard. AI,RER'F W1NsLow Industrial Course Albert looks awful wise, but you never can tell! He knows a lot about track, anyway, and has worked hard on the team. Good luck. Favorite expression-? Pastime-Talking to Charlie in English. Ambition-To be a chemistry professor. LYMAN K. NVOODHURY Industrial Course VVe don't believe Lyman ever talks unless it's in his sleep. He pilots the green taxi regularly and is a safe and sane driver-so they tell us. Favorite expression-?' Pastime-Driving the taxi from Pride's Corner. Ambition-To make a perfect recitation. S E R V I C E UNEXCELLED Q UALITY THE BEST HASKELL dk ANDERSON roceries and eibffeats 573 Main Street Westbrook, Maine

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I8 But you failed because the true life is expressed in that which comes from the soul of God, the great world of nature. In shutting from your life this world of beauty and sunshine, you shut out the Story Beautiful. Cummings opened his eyes and blinked at a thrush in the tree above him, who seemed intent upon bursting his throat with the weight of his song. The brook and waterfall beside him still purled merrily along. while the anemones on the bank nodded cheerfully. What a queer dream, exclaimed the man, and how happy I feel. I believe I could write now l With a glad shout he raced to the cabin, grasped his writing materials and hurried back to the waterfall, where he began to write. For hours his hand moved back and forth, registering easily and without effort the beautiful thoughts that had so long been securely locked in the far recesses of his brain. It was not until the Sun God was flaunting his colored banners in the West, making the snow- capped mountains blush rosily as he beamed upon them, that john Cummings ceased to write. Then, after sitting lost in thought for some time. he arose to return to the cabin. Turning his face to the skyqwhere already the myriad stars were blazing, he murmured softly, 'The forget-me- nots of the angels' Ah, indeed you are the 'Story Beautifulf you and all the rest of God's great world and neither I nor any other mortal can do you justice with mere words. E. G. H., '25. INSANE WISDOM A dapper, citified young man, wearing a straw hat banded in bright blue and carrying a cane, briskly approached the blacksmith shop, and ad- dressed himself to the Smith who labored within. I'm the new county Marshall, he announced, and I've come to Dunn you l The Smith laid down the long pointed knife which he had been sharpening on an Emery wheel, and slowly lifted his head. What say ? he drawled. I'm the new county .Marshall, repeated the visitor impatiently. I've come to collect the n The Blue E-r White payment due on the land you bought from John Robinson of Boston. Oh, hev ye? inquired the Smith. Did he send you? Well, not exactly. He instructed his attor- neys, Goff and Gayton, 1925 Del Court, Boston, to collect the payment and they deemed it advis- able to have me settle the matter. VVell! Well ! muttered the Smith. He arose from his seat and going to the forge, which glowed dimly in the corner, threw more coal on it, then turned abruptly. Set down, why don't ye? he demanded sav- agely. The Marshall placed an empty box conven- iently near the door and gingerly seated himself upon it. The Smith picked up the pointed knife from the Brackett on which he had placed it and re- sumed his seat by the Emery wheel. Belong in town ? he asked genially. No, I came over from Brown-ville. Hum-m. Thought I'd never seen you around here before. What kind of Craft did ye come over in P I didn't come in any kind of Craft. I walked over. Quite a little jaunt, ain't it ? Yes, but I'm a fast Walker, so it didn't take me long. Well, ye ought to learn to fly, said the Smith mournfully, his voice trailing -into a whisper. The Marshall sat straighter, and summoning his courage determined to make a firm demand for his money that he might betake himself from this weird presence. Before he could Find the right words, the Smith spoke again. How's your ma ? he asked. The Marshall stared. My mother is dead, he answered with dignity. Well, how's your Pa, then ? My father isn't living, either. 4'Too bad, too bad. I-Iaven't any parents at all? My own parents died when I was a child. I was brought up by Foster parents. But come! This is beside the question. Are you or aren't you going to pay me that money ? The Smith ran his finger over the sharp edge