Winthrop High School - Winthrop Winner Yearbook (Winthrop, ME)

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WINTHROP HIGH SCHOOL 17 I wondered whether I had done the right thing in killing him, perhaps he never intended to harm, but anyway, what was the use to risk our lives with any denizen of the forest? We arrived back at camp in a few minutes and busied ourselves with lit- tle chores, with no regard for anything else. After supper was over that night and everything was done, I decided to go out on the back porch of our camp and look away over the hills to see some of the beauties of the place that we were in. My chum remained inside, prefer- ring to read than to sit outside. Dark- ness comes on quickly in the heart of the mountains, and such was the case this time. It was very quiet, once in awhile you could hear barks or snarls of wolves and foxes calling or answering their re- spective kinds. A fiery red moon rose out of the east and bathed the mountains in moonlight, which was a very hand- some sight to see. All these things I was regarding with the keenest pleasure. I had no due oc- casion to do so, but it appeared as if a magnet had drawn me to the spot. Sud- denly I glanced over to the knoll that we had been standing on that afternoon. Something seemed to be standing there outlined against a background of celes- tial moonlight, something that was haunting and that made a cold shiver run the length of my back. All at once from the top of that knoll there came the call of a wolf, and then I knew what I had seen standing there. They were long, drawn howls, the most weird that I had ever heard, and my heart sickened in me. The wolf was calling to his dead mate, that never came, the one that I had killed. I do honestly believe that I passed through the most miserable time in all my life listening to that sound. I was being punished for killing a wolf that prob- ably meant us no harm. The howling suddenly stopped, and I saw the great bulk of the wolf move slowly from the top of the knoll and van- ish into unknown depths, but even after he had gone I could hear the haunting echoes of that howling in my ears, and even now, some night when the storm is raging outside, I expect to hear in my dreams the howling of that phantom wolf. L. S., '32. A VISION OF LIFE As I sit by my fireplace watching the flames, They picture before me mountains and plainsg There, by their dancing and changing of form, They show me life as it comes along. At first they are small, and tiny and wee, Right there before me childhood I seeg Now they grow brighter, more graceful in form- These flames are youth. More logs are piled on. The flames are now brighter, so wonderfully clear, They tell me at once middle-age is here- Middle-age with its happiness, glory and song- But we cannot stop here, for life must go on. The Hames reach their glory, a marvelous height, A glory that shines off in a. wondrous. light, But this glory is short, and before very long, There in the fireplace, the last logs are piled on. The fiames die down now, and there in my sight I see the most beautiful place in life, Now the world's toils are o'er, and life's reached its goal, And there in the hearth is a bed of bright coals.

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A MW .r ' ' W 'q.lu- ,i M in-is A i i ,, ,J as-.ii LITER RR THE HAUNTED SOUL It haunts me still-the howling of that phantom wolf. It happened some years ago, but even now at times it comes upon me and nearly drives me mad. Much do I doubt that there is a more weird, ghostly sound than the howl of a wolf in distress. It will freeze the heart of some of the most courageous hunters to the core and give them a pe- culiar feeling, one hard to express, that will remain with them for the remainder of their lives. My chum and I were camping in the Rocky Mountains in the fall of 1922. Our chief object there was for the purpose of deer huntingg so as we had been in camp for two days and had not been out hunting, we decided to start early on a Monday morning. The morning arrived very coolg a little sprinkling of snow had fallen the night before, so that it made the tracking very good. We struck a deer track soon after we left the camp and trailed it for a long time but couldn't seem to get near enough to the deer for a shot. It warmed up considerably in the forenoon and the snow went rapidly. We found that the tracking for the rest of the day was spoiledg and so about noon we started on our way back to the camp not wholly disappointed, because we hadn't had such terribly poor luck after all. We had struck a track soon after leaving in the morning, and that was something that all hunters weren't able to do. We would have arrived home safely and without any delay, but for one inci- dent that was the cause of my writing this tale. We were standing on top of a knoll from where we could get a fairly good view of the surrounding country- side, including our camp. Suddenly there was a rustle behind us which broke the quietness of that peaceful abode and cast fears into our very souls. We both whirled to find ourselves look- ing into the face of a large wolf which seemed to be approaching us very cau- tiously. Whether or not the wolf meant any harm to us I do not knowg and if he did, he never had a chance to com- plete his objective, for at that instant I pulled up my rifle and fired at a point between those gleaming eyes. As I looked into the eyes of that dead wolf,

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18 WINTHROP WINNER The flames are a life, the logs are the years, The coals are the deeds that have been done in good cheer, Most beautiful of all are the coals of life's deeds, For these form a model for those whom you lead. L. I., 'aa THE TRAIL OF THE DESERT The desert hills in all their painted splendor rose from the hot sands below to radiate the pale, softening colors of nature out upon those stretches of un- tenanted wastes - wastes of dread for the tired, despondent desert rats of long ago, but now, only scenes of wonder and glory to those civilized people speeding across unpicturesque highways shaped by hands of humans-rather than those hands of destiny-of nature. As we traversed those highways, we came suddenly upon a small shack with its quaint sign, Trading Post, blister- ing and peeling in the sun. The porch rail outside was lined with pottery of every design, while against it lazily slouched a tawny Indian, in American clothes, 'tis true, but with every aspect of that staunch race of sturdy, unmoved warriors. This man, with set, grim face, gave us a bit of advice that we will always thank him for. As we told him of how we wanted to go to the Petrified Forest, he, pointing his hand to the west, told us of a place which only he and his friends knew-a. place fairly littered with this petrified wood-wood that could be taken out of the desert,-diff'er- ing from the National Forest where it all was kept for future sight-seers. So off' we went, the sand stretching out on every side till it met those tinted painted hills, in the distance changing to a deep purple. We bumped across a cattle guard stretching ac1'oss the narrow, sandy road. The road finally dwindled down to a mere rut and, topping a little rise, we came upon a sight such as we never before had seen. The desert was there and then the tinted hills beyond, but over them the sunset was spreading its beautiful colors of pale shell pink, robin's egg blue, deepening into orange hills. En- as it lowered behind the tranced and seemingly lifted from earth by this glorious scene, it was several the logs, moments before we noticed lying in stumps, even roots all about- logs which proved to be the rock we had been seeking. In the quiet, silently de- scending night, it seemed almost sacred ground. We were spellbound, as we un- consciously thought of all the ages, all the changes, all the people, all the prob- able tragedies and joys that had hap- pened on this spot. Sitting upon those logs--the most unfolded powerful example of nature itself to us, and in that supreme power of nature's handiwork we realized the futility of our meagre eiorts-striving to check-to equal-to contend the ever- lasting unequaled force of that all powerful nature formed by the hands of Him who can never be equaled, who can never even be rivaled by mere mortal man. V. M., '32, MY DREAM CASTLE Down in a quiet little valley, Surrounded by trees most fair, Stands an invisible building, Built with the utmost care. Little by little I have filled Each spacious room and hall, With childish hopes and youthful dreams So dear and sacred to us all.