Wethersfield High School - Elm Yearbook (Wethersfield, CT)

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TICKLISH BUSINESS When Izaak Walton left his famous advice to anglers, he neglected to include in it all of the methods by which fish can be enticed to grace the dinner table. Ever since the day when, in the Fisherman's Guide, I read of the newest manner of catching fish, namely, of tickling them, it had been my desire to try out this novel method of the ultra modern sportsman. Last summer, it was my fortune to embark on an extended trip to the north, where a man's a man, peanuts are five cents a bag, and where three-foot trout spring out of sparkling waters just for the sole pleasure of being caught. Upon arriving, Jack and I pitched camp, looked to our tackle, and otherwise prepared for the big sport of the morrow. An early ,supper was planned, and what was our displeasure to find that everything but supper had been provided for us by nature. A trip to town was the only means of allaying hunger, and so we started along a path' which ran parallel to the bank of our chosen trout stream. It was near twilight time, just after the sun, like the actor of a great drama, had bowed his way to the wings and awaited the dropping of the curtain of evening. Near at hand the insects eheeped out their nocturne, while far off the calling of a night bird shrflly proclaimed its awakening. Proceeding along the trail, I chanced to glance into the stream, and there, not a yard away from the bank, was the largest trout I have ever seen, just awaiting to be caught. I had neither hook nor line, but, happy thought, as my hands twitched to touch the trout, I remembered the treatise on tickling fish! Carefully, I stretched out full length over the edge of the bank, which at this point was about two feet above the level of the water. With more care I slipped my hand into the water, and edged it out toward the trout. The cautious Indian, seeking to work his charms on his pet cobra, was never more apprehensive. Now I could almost touch the creature-and it moved, ever so slightly, but just out of reach. I stretched farther out over the brook. Again I tried, and failed, as the fish, alarmed by an incautious movement, wriggled away a bit more. I could not reach it now, but by having Jack sit on my feet, thus holding me to the bank while I reached for the fish, contact was again estab- lished. Now, to tickle the trout, I had only to move my hand an inch to touch him. It was going to be too easy! Then, with a mucky sough, the edge of the bank caved under our combined weight, and a moment found us flung into the brook. Believe it or not, the charm of that incident tickled the fish to death! -E. Malcolm Sftllllldflli, 28. T0 A TERRIER You're just a shaggy little mutt, A grey haired bundle of rags. Yours is a weeny bit of a tail, Spasmodic in its wags. Two eyes, a saucy, button-y nose, Paws turning in, out and up, But alas! I love you just the same, You adorable Irish pup! -Virginia Becker, '30.

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fateful evening. He smiled with satisfaction as he walked before the tall looking-glass. After all, he was good-looking. Six feet and more in height, sparse and brown, with a tiny black chevron of manhood on his upper lip. Stewart had encouraged him to the last and, indeed, he felt quite confident as he jumped into his car and scooted toward her home. Ann was at the door when he leapt up the stairs. It's so perfect tonight, let's go for a drive,', she said when she saw he had brought his car. They went. Speeding along over the road, he wondered if he would lose courage at the last moment. Soon they stopped on a high hill where they could watch the late moon rise. As the moth-white orb fluttered up, Smith felt a queer sensation. He spoke softly to his partner, and in a minute it was over. He had proposed! He couldnlt remember what he had said, he only heard her sigh, 'lOh, I'm so happy! t Then he took her home and' lingered but a minute to say good night. When he awoke next morning, the scene of the preceding night came clearly to him. Not until then did he realize his folly. She had ac- cepted and now, what a hole he was in! He'd take Stewart's head off today for ever suggesting such a plan. No. He wouldn,t tell him any- thing, but would see Ann that very afternoon and explain everything. She would understand, he knew. They arranged to go for another drive, and when he called around, she was ready,-attired in deep sapphire, that reflected the color of her eyes. They drove and drove. Somehow Smith couldn,t seem to explain matters, for every time he looked at her he changed his mind. Oh, gollyf' he gasped finally, I thought I was only pretending to love you last night, but Fortune fooled me,-I really do. And there's no moon here now to kid me along, either!,' -Olive Symonds, ,29. TIME Time Is the only thing In this wide world Of ours Which, To be saved, Must be spent. -Gertrude Francis, '2 S.

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SIXTY MILES AWAY It was a black and windy night on the sound, and in a little bay rocked the forty-foot cabin cruiser, May. Her tall mast bobbed as she rode over the top of each green swell, while taut anchor cables held her from the rocks. On the beach all was quiet save for the crash of breakers on the rocks and the howl of the lashing wind as it flung the salt spray back into the sea. Not a light shone in the cottages, for it was 2 o'clock in the morning. While the rain pelted on the roof of the craft, and she tugged at her ropes, quite a different scene was pictured below. The warm yellow light of an electric lamp flooded the little cabin in gold, and at a table operating his radio transmitter sat our hero. He was talking to his father, John Blair Sr., who, at his home sixty miles away, was operating another station. John Jr. was taking the family yacht, May, to dry- dock at Essex for her winter overhauling, and he had decided to spend the stormy night in the little bay. He threw shut a switch, and picked up a microphone as a motor generator let forth its hum. John was speaking into the transmitter. This is station IBBC on the motor yacht May talking with station IZO at Hartford, Connecticut. Hello, dad! It certainly is a bad night here, the old scow is tugging at her ropes in great style. If the weather clears by tomorrow afternoon, I'll run her over to Essex and come home by train. What say? This is IBBC standing by. Again he threw the switch, and the hum of the generator died away, in its place came the voice of John's father, at home sixty miles away. This is IZO at Hartford talking to the motor launch, May. Good evening, son. If I had known the weather was going to be so bad, I would have sent someone to help you manage the boat, but I guess you can do it O. K. I,m glad you put in on a night like this. Where are you anchored? IZO off-go ahead. Once more the switch was closed, and again the hum of the gen- erator filled the cabin. Oh, don't worry, dad, yours truly can run this scow one hand. I've put in at Half Bay, and we're sitting pretty. Holy smokes, dad, stand by, I hear some one calling. Hello, IBBC! Hello, IBBC! S. O. S.! S. O. S.! came the voice through the phones, for God's sake, hurry. Feverishly John closed the switch and shouted, This is IBBC, the motor yacht, May. Who are you,'and what do you want?', This is the motor yacht, Joy. We have run on the rocks off Fisher's Island. We are stove in and in danger of being washed against the rocks into deep water. We have no small boats and cannot get to our life prcservers. For God's sake, hurry.