1935 Yearbook by Bancroft School

UE NIO

DEDICATION Because of the vital interest in music which she has stimulated, Because of her success in raising the Glee Club to its present high standard, Because of her contagious enthusiasm, her sense of humor, and her delightful cheerfulness, We, the Board of 1935, Affectionately dedicate this Sixth Annual Volume of the Blue Moon To Our Musical Director FRANCES OMAR WEEKS

Foreword LAST the murmurings of the various instruATments, the sometimes discordant suggestions of their tuning for this musical presentation, have subsided. A tap of our baton, and with this simple prelude we introduce a symphony of many themes, created by a full orchestra. It is our wish, as hopeful conductor of this BLUE MOON concert, that the music blended now as a result of the combined parts played by all, from shy triangle to masterful trumpet, may ring true to the ears of our listeners, a representative harmony of the past year.

1 16I 'W01-135 .1,30ZI3NVII HILL 5C61-,

Principal HOPE FISHER A.B., Vassar College; AM., Columbia University; Ph.D., University of Michigan EUNICE

Mathematics and Science

W. SMITH A.B., Middlebury College

History

B. CLARK

HELEN

A.B., Vassar College; A.M., Columbia University

French HELEN P. ESTEE A.B., Smith College; diplomas from l'Institut de Touraine and la Sorbonne ard l'Ecole de Phonetique de l'Univers:te de Paris CHARLOTTE

Latin

M. POST A.B., Smith College

ELEANOR BLAIR A.B., Wellesley College; A.M., Columbia University

English

Diction and Dramatics

ROSE DRESSER

Graduate of the Leland-Powers School EDITH

Head of Middle and Lower Schools, Class VIII, Mathematics and Testing

J. JONES

Graduate of State Normal School at Worcester LOUISE

Class VII, History and English

T. BENDER

A.B., Wellesley College FLORENCE

Class VI, Art and Science

A. WOODIS

Graduate of Worcester State Normal School

Class V

ANNA MATTISON A.B., Vassar College CARRIE

E. KNOWLES Graduate of Springfield Training School

Class IV

BLUE

FLORENCE

MOON

L. COBB

Class III Graduate of Miss Wheelock's School

ANNE LACEY

Class II A.B., Smith College

E. HYDE

MAUDE

Class I Graduate of Miss Fisher's Kindergarten School

G. ROCKWELL

HELEN

Sub-Primary

Graduate of State Normal School at Worcester HELEN PORTER LEWIS

Nursery School A.B., A.M., Wellesley College

BARBARA

Assistant in English

SMITH A.B., Wellesley College

Assistant in French

JOAN KINSLEY A.B., Vassar College

FRANCES OMAR WEEKS Music Pupil of Carlo Buonamici, Mrs. Frances L. Grover, and John Herman Loud; teacher's diploma from Fox-Buonamici School

Assistant in Music

NANCY DORR A.B., Vassar College

D. CARR

HOMER

Interior Decoration

Boston Museum of Fine Arts, Harvard Summer School

A. STEPHEN

DEMOORJIAN Graduate of Worcester Art Museum School

Art

EMILY BURLING WAITE MANCHESTER Graduate of Worcester Art Museum School

Art

DOROTHY TROWBRIDGE MERRILL A.B., Connecticut College

Physical Education

JOHN WILLIAMS

Physical Education Harvard School of Physical Education

WILLIAM

G. KECK

Manual Training and Projects Massachusetts School of Engineering

Creative Dancing

MARJORIE HEINZEN Pupil of Max Weiner ROLAND

H. COBB

Registrar A.B., A.M., Bowdoin College

Head of the Residence Financial Secretary

CONSTANCE GARDNER PHILIP

E. DODGE

B.S., Connecticut State College; Yale University

Secretary

DOROTHY FOWLER A.B., Sweet Briar College

R. PAIGE, R.N. School Nurse CHARLES A. SPARROW, M.D.School Physician MINNIE

DEAN HOFFMAN Stimulating and very entertaining company. She really doesn't look big enough to carry the responsibilities she does, but there's always the deepening dimple. Dramatic Club I, II, III, IV; Treasurer Dramatic Club III; Ticket Committee IV; Play II; Glee Club I, II, III, IV; Assistant Librarian Glee Club II; Library Committee I, II, III, IV; President of Class I; President of Self Government IV; Basketball Squad III, IV.

SUSANNAH MIRICK A rare combination of initiative, conscientiousness, and spirit, with a dash of wit. We shall never forget Sue as Touchstone. Dramatic Club III, IV; Play IV; Glee Club III, IV; Business Manager BLUE MOON IV; Library Committee IV; Basketball Squad III, IV.

MARY ELISABETH ROBINSON Oh that profile! And she's the embodiment of the "try anything once" spirit. Dramatic Club IV; Play IV; Library Committee IV; BLUE MooN Board IV.

FRANCES HILL Her enthusiasm, her ability, and her sportsmanship are second to none. She's the spirit of the class. Dramatic Club I, II, III, IV; Play I, IV; Scenery Committee II; Glee Club I, II, III, IV; Community Chest I, II, III; Head of Blues IV; Head of Hockey III; Basketball Squad III, IV; Head of Riding II; President of Class III, IV.

MARY ELLEN MOWBRAY The class poet, of whom we are much in awe. A keen sense of humor adds to the charm of her littleness and daintiness. Dramatic Club II, III; Costume Committee II; Glee Club II, III, IV; Literary Editor BLUE MOON II, III; Head of BLUE MOON IV.

SYLVIA SPENCE What goes on behind those eyes? Because of her modesty, her willing spirit, and her friendly nature, Tibby is generally popular. Dramatic Club I, II, III, IV; Costume Committee I; President Dramatic Club IV; Play II, III, IV; Glee Club I, II, III, IV; Librarian Glee Club II; Census Committee I, II, III; President of Class I; Head of Blues III; Basketball Squad III, IV.

SYLVIA COLLINS Her natural sweetness and her delicate coloring combined to make her a lovely madonna. Dramatic Club III; Glee Club III, IV; Secretary of Glee Club III; Social Committee IV.

RUTH MAYALL Behind her gracious reserve is an unexpected enthusiasm for such contrasting interests as riding and costume designing. Dramatic Club III, IV; Secretary of Dramatic Club III; Costume Committee IV; Glee Club III; Head of Census Committee IV; Library Committee IV.

GERTRUDE BLOOD Few are as thoughtful and as generous with their time as Trudie. The whole class is.grateful to her for her cheerfulness and her capability. Dramatic Club II, IV; Scenery Committee II; Make-up Committee II; Stage Manager IV; Chairman Library Committee IV; Library Committee II; Basketball Squad IV.

JANET HEYWOOD Our tall, well-groomed executive. She has untiring energy, and always manages to be on the spot. Dramatic Club I, II, III, IV; Play IV; Scenery Committee I, II; Make-up Committee II, III; Glee Club I, II, III, IV; Treasurer of Glee Club III; Secretary of Glee Club IV; Chairman Community Chest IV; Social Committee II, III, IV; President of Class III.

MARGARET LONG Since her arrival as a new member of the class, her diffident manner and her willingness to help have found her a definite place. Dramatic Club IV; Costume Committee IV; Glee Club IV; Community Chest IV.

REBECCA BURSLEY Distinguished for her musical ability and a certain fetching bluntness of manner. She composed our class song, of which we boast. Dramatic Club III, IV; Play III, IV; Glee Club III, IV; Chairman Social Committee IV.

BARBARA GOODWIN We are all envious of her dark hair and her white teeth. Jobs are well done when she does them. Glee Club I, III, IV; President Glee Club IV; Dramatic Club I, II, III, IV; Costume Committee II; Chief Usher IV; Census Committee II; Social Committee III, IV.

BARBARA MACFARLAND Zest, a breezy manner, general attractiveness, and skill make up one of our liveliest and best liked classmates. Dramatic Club I, II, IV; Play IV; Costume Committee II; Glee Club IV; Captain Basketball Squad IV; BLUE MOON Board IV.

BLUE

MOON

Senior Will WE,THE HONORABLE AND ILLUSTRIOUS CLASS OF 1935 OF THE BANCROFT SCHOOL OF WORCESTER, in the county of that name, in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, being at present in as sound minds as possible for those in our condition, do make this our last will and testament, thereby revoking all other wills made by us. We, the aforesaid, feeling uncertain as to what the future may hold for us and how the world may receive our talent, do, after a just payment of our funeral expenses and incurred debts, bequeath the balance of our burdens to the promising undergraduates of the aforesaid school as follows: To the 1936 Seniors, we leave the Senior Room in all its glory. And to this class we also leave our alarm clock hoping that in the future it will prove as useful at faculty teas as it did this year, when, after its gentle (?) hint the faculty rose in a body and left. To the incoming freshmen we leave our uniforms, with the suggestion that they wear them backside-to so that they will shine equally both in back and in front. And to them, we leave two brushes to be used in keeping upperclassmen's uniforms spotless. To the whole upper school we leave funds to be invested in a necktie-tree for use on Monday mornings after Assembly, and the buttons from our uniforms to be kept until the next pictures are taken, when they may be distributed among the needy. To the faculty we leave dumb-bells, rings, ladders, to limber up on before basketball games so that the after effects will be less noticeable. For the benefit of the entire school we express the desire that Miss Fisher will see fit to have constructed a drawbridge which can be lowered across the river which separates the lunch room from the hungry school, during rainy seasons. To Jane Baker, we leave Gertrude Blood's ability to get out of Grey Gables on weekends. To Merle Higgins, we leave Becky Bursley's account book. To Anne Day, we leave Mary Elisabeth Robinson's mail to read to study hall. In the testament whereof we hereunto set our hands, and in the presence of the witnesses declare this to be our last will, done this eighth day of April in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and thirty-five. CLASS OF 1935. Signed by the testatrix in the presence of us, who at their request and in the presence of one another have hereunto subscribed our names as witnesses. GEORGE HEYWOOD, JOHN WILLIAMS, WILLIAM KECK. Drawn up by Hoffman and Hill, Attorneys-at-law for the Class of 1935.

To grow To fall for one

Checking up

Talking about her dates

Scaring people

Getting excused

Hoarding

Worrying

Riding around a certain fraternity house

Scouting

Writing to Him

Hunting for Hal Kemp

(Ed. note—censored) To wear lipstick in school

Going to the lending library

Looking for things

Deanus

Jan

Tibby

Ruth

Becky

Lizzie

Mack

Sue

Sylvia C.

Mowbray

Goodwin

Maggie

Trudie

The ring

That dissipated look

Nasturtium finger nail polish

The picture

Her bugle

Her fraternity pin

Bud

Her checkbook

Her permanent

Her laugh

Her finger nails

Her mentholatum

Senior ring

DEAREST POSSESSION

To catch up on sleep Her cod liver oil

To own a car

To flunk a subject

To get married

To get everything done just Once

To get to school on time

To come down with something

To pass in Algebra

To ride the bus 24 hours a day

To play a feminine role

To wear size 14

Being s0000 enthusiastic

GREATEST DESIRE

Fran

CHIEF OCCUPATION

Senior Slams

At the Tech dance—

Sorry, but you can't wear that

Seniors, pkose bring your money!

SHE SAYS

In Hartford—

Oh deah!

You won't feel it in a couple of weeks!

I didn't want to anyway

Of course

Where's Goodwin?

I'm going home!

D'Aroya Sweetz!

The bus was late, so—

"Over the Weekend" Oh dear, where did you find it?

"Learning"

"Just Once Too Often"

"Music Makes Me"

"Mr. and Mrs. Is the Name"

Girl Scout Song

"I'm in Love!"

"Why Was I Born?"

"If I Had a Million Dollars"

"There's a Bit of Paris in You"

"Don't Let It Bother You're a nasty woman You"

"Blame It On My Youth"

"I Faw Down an' Go Boom!"

"You're the Top"

THEME SONG

I-

4 0 0 Z

BLUE

MOON

Senior Prophecy

HUGE clock stitched out the time on the further wall, typewriters clanged and people rushed madly from desk to desk. The big office ' of the Worcester Daily Blue Moon was in the usual noisy state that preceded its going to press! Sue Mirick, the harried business manager of this flourishing newspaper, pushed her way through the myriad of desks and reporters, finally reaching a glass door on which was painted "Editor." With a final gasp she lunged into the room, catching her Scout uniform on the door. "Don't be so noisy," yelled the occupant of the desk (it proved to be that of B. Mack.). "Oh, it's you, Sue. Sorry, but this noise will drive me crazy one of these days. By the way, do you remember what day this is?" "Why yes, it's the seventh of June." "Yes, and it was just six years ago today that we graduated from Bancroft—how time flies!" "I know, and that's what I came in about. Here are some dispatches about some of the class of '35. This one is about Sylvia Collins. I always knew her enthusiasm for child psychology would amount to something. She and her husband, Jack, are conducting some important experiments on their five children." "They'll be famous some day. Well, well, Janet couldn't join Theta Chi so she seems to have done the next best thing. She's been appointed 'House Mother' over there. I guess they chose her because she has always taken such an interest in that 'House.'" "Here's an Elizabeth Arden advertisement that just came in—I'll read it—'Elizabeth Arden wishes to announce to the patrons of beauty in Worcester that Miss Barbara Goodwin, the noted authority on make-up, is now representing Elizabeth Arden at the Gross Strauss Company and will be glad to help you with any of your beauty problems.' Barb always had a passion for make-up." in— "She was—" Here a knock broke into the conversation—"Come of Why, Fran—what a coincidence! We've just been talking about some our old classmates. Where have you been?" "It's a long story—I just got back from Labrador—I've been up there simply with Dr. Grenfell—it really was horribly exciting and I've got church to going 're now—we Bob meet to way my on oodles to tell you. I'm in New at seven o'clock. By the way I stopped in at the 'Penn' while I was Skinny with singing was suppose do you who and York, to see Hal Kemp, it?" beat Ennis? Mowbray, can you

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MOON

"Listen," it was Sue's voice, she was reading from a ticker tape. "Dean Hoffman has finally reached the summit of the highest mountain in Switzerland, hitherto unscaled by anyone. Her Vassar stride stands her in good stead as it enables her to hurl herself from one place to another without fear of mishap." "I came home on the bus," said Fran,"and when I got off at the new bus terminal—I was greeted by Ruth Maya11—it seems that she has been appointed as the terminal hostess. I guess they thought she spent so much time there anyway they might just as well put her to work." A boy came into the office. "Here are a couple of advertisements that just came in—thought you'd probably like to see them." He went out and closed the door. Barb read them aloud. "Miss M. Elisabeth Robinson of the Bud-ding Beauty Salon takes this opportunity to tell her customers that she has recently invested in a new line of permanent wave machines in the hopes that they will take this opportunity to have their hair attended to." "An item of interest is to be found in the Lending Library of Miss Margaret Long. She has added five 'Tech' boys to her staff and hopes that all the students of the Bancroft School will take advantage of their willing aid in the choice of suitable reading matter." The ticker began to buzz frantically. "Find out what's coming through, Sue." "0. K. Gertrude Blood has been appointed by the Government as the President of the United States Lost and Found Department, and it is rumored that she will have a special department for pens." "Trudie finally got her merits recognized. I hear, too, that she is managing (as a side line) the big production of 'Romeo and Juliet' in which Sylvia Spence is playing Romeo opposite Katherine Cornell." "I got a long letter," this from Fran, "from Tibby the other day and she said that instead of having a big orchestra play for the production they are having Becky play. She has become a famous concert pianist and is able to play two pianos and an organ at the same time. Well, I must be running along now. Do drop into Labrador some day, I'd love to see you." "So long and come around anytime," said Barb as the door closed behind Fran. "Seems good to see some of the old gang again. Oh, Sue, remind me to pay my library dues tomorrow." With a sigh she turned to the messy desk before her. BARBARA MACFARLAND, 1935

All's Well — Worse Luck! gravest disappointment of my life has been the fact that I have THEalways been healthy. Looking back over a lifetime of ill-less years, I think perhaps I'm abnormally healthy. It may be a disease. I've never had anything serious enough to worry anyone, and when I do get some slight germ, someone else gets something big, and I'm forgotten again. When I had my tonsils out, they sent me a bunch of violets and went off to the sea-shore. A very light case of mumps made me an object of general amusement. People delighted in taking pictures of me with a towel around my head, and trying vainly to eat a lamb chop. It was so nice and crisp and brown! And if I ever do get anything, it's something that looks horrible, like the mumps, and boils, and colds id by head. When I got whooping cough, my family just chuckled and remarked, "Isn't it nice that you have it instead of Web! We won't need a doctor for you. You always get things so lightly!" I thought I really had something once though. I stepped on a razor blade, and had to have stitches and things. No sooner had I begun to enjoy the burst of interest in me, than my brother developed a lovely strep. infection! I shall never forgive him for the gloating way in which he said, "People can die of strep." And the ice cream and ginger ale he got! I have given up trying to get anything. People around me are continually having people excited over them, having lovely things sent to them, etc., etc., etc. They'll be sorry when I'm dead. GERTRUDE BLOOD, 1935

BLUE

MOON

Spirit THE stern, substantial barracks seemed to march down in close formation to the steely waters of the bay, almost as though they were closing in upon an enemy. Overhead, the gray sky itself seemed a great metallic weapon which the turrets of the barracks were trying to prick in vain. The sidewalks in front of the buildings formed a network as precise as the unyielding regularity of the bricks in the dull red walls. In single files the gray trees presented arms rigidly, as if to please the great staring eyes that were the barracks' windows. Somewhere in the distance drums were beating out a martial pattern, accompanied by the pounding monotony of tramping feet, occasionally stabbed by the notes of a bugle. Dejectedly slouching against the door of Main Barracks, a mussed, crumpled figure shook his head in despair. David Brooks straightened, glanced over his shoulder guiltily and then down at the neglected uniform. Strange that it took so much more than a uniform to make a military man. Perhaps only strange that he had not realized it before. He remembered all the pictures which he had lived with, ever since he was very small, pictures which had covered the walls of most of the rooms at home, had surrounded him, pictures of generals and of privates, of parades and of drills. There had been a picture of the School, too. Vividly the sabres and spurs which his father had collected sounded their clanging notes in his memory. He had thought that to fulfill all his father's ambition for him he had only to grasp a sabre, buckle on a pair of spurs, and step with ease into one of those pictures, but it was different. Here the sabres which he had once regarded with mild friendliness contributed to the hostility of harsh commands, and seemed a part of the whole threatening scheme, to be resented. His father's hopes were now a source of astonishment to him. It was incredible that any man could have loved this life, and have longed to march out his years in military discipline. Yet it was true, and he himself was proving the truth of that love by his presence here in the School, trying to form his strong body in a mold he detested. Listlessly he lounged down the steps to the walk. The drums out there on the drill field paused for a second, and an officer's voice bellowed out orders. It occurred to him that since he was on the sick list in order to avoid drill, it might be well to report at the hospital. To get to the infirmary, however, it was necessary to pass the "sally port" where the officer of the day was stationed. Barton was on duty, and of all the privileged cadets who carried a sabre, he was the most trying. Better give it up, and add just one more mistake to that accumulation of errors already formed during the few months of his stay. Better to go to his room and write to his father. The small, plain room with its two iron cots and its severe wardrobes seemed, in contrast with the rest of the school, a refuge. Here the old man did not enter except on rare occasions. If only he could replace for a while the thought that this was his cell, with the warm feeling that it was his room, and that his roommate was a friend, not a hardened fellow convict. It might be rather pleasant

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to have Roberts for a friend, but ever since the beginning of his sentence, Roberts had loved it, and that made any intimacy impossible. Writing home was an ordeal. David always wondered just how enthusiastic he managed to make his letters. The actual words which he wrote on the paper were contented, even happy words, but lined up in their rows together what did they at best convey? Usually there was an interruption soon after David began to write, and today was no exception. The halls of Main began to ring with the shouts of cadets returning from drill, and dotting the uproar was the distinct rapping noise of boys "breaking" their guns. Roberts tore into the room gun in hand as though attacking an enemy. Strange what a military person he was, terribly efficient and enthusiastic. He began to hustle out of his uniform. David was quiet. Soon a muffled voice found its way out of a football jersey. "Goldbricking again, Brooks? What's the matter with you? Want to be a private all your life? Fullerton told me today I might get made at Christmas— corporal. That's doing all right for a plebe. Say—I thought you were going to be good football material when I first saw you. . . Last company games are Saturday, and you've only been out once. And hey . . . are we going to smear the Band! Battery's got 'em. . . ." The last sentence trailed away down the hall. Spirit. Military spirit. It was there even in football. Battery going to smear the Band. Battery. Horses dragging guns along, dragging plebes on caissons, swallowed in dust. Roberts a corporal at Christmas. That meant that in a year or so Roberts wouldn't bounce up and down on a caisson, that in a year or so Roberts would have a sabre and be mounted. Roberts an officer, Brooks still a private. Roberts and Brooks in the wrong positions. It should be reversed for his father's sake, shouldn't it? The letter to his father had come to a halt, and could not be urged along. Daylight had come to a wavering halt, too, so football practice would be over, and now the letter must wait until "C. Q." David had learned from experience that nothing could be accomplished in this period before "mess." Cadets coming in from the field turned on victrolas and radios and then tried to make themselves heard above the noise. On some radio a band was beating out a march. You couldn't get away from it, could you? Someone yelled "Here, plebe," and tossed a pair of puttees into the room. David picked them up slowly and placed them beside two other pairs by his bed. Roberts came in laughing with another plebe and glanced at the puttees. "Guess we'd better get busy shining 'em up," he declared, matter-of-factly. Roberts didn't mind. It had seemed natural to him from the first to wait on the old man, and now, David supposed, thinking of the corporalcy, Roberts was looking ahead to the time when plebes would be shining his puttees. David could not see that far. He knew, though, that in the dim future of Roberts' corporalcy he would still be shining puttees and hating it. If he lasted that long. There was just time before "mess" to return the puttees to their owners. A

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bugle out on the walk called them down into formation. Barton, the company captain, snapped them to attention. The orders of other company captains cracked out of the darkness from the walks in front of other barracks. Over on the main walk the adjutant's voice dominated. "Detail for tomorrow! Officer of the day: Cadet Dunn! Officer in charge: Lieutenant Payson! Sound off!" The band, stationed in front of the Mess Hall, struck up music to march them into the dining room. Dinner was a vast routine in a great, orderly hall. David wondered if he could ever manage to enjoy a meal there, having to remember so conscientiously to pass to old men first, and address them as "sir." He stood like the hundreds of other boys, folded arms stiffly thrust out before him, during grace. Rebelliously he stared at the cadets around him and wondered again at his father's love for all this. Up at the regimental table rang the cry "Seats!" Barton, at the head of David's table, pounded his drinking class on its edge and yelled "Plebe!" The glass flew toward Roberts, who filled it and handed it hack. Fullerton, a ranking officer, in turn pounded his glass and tossed it down the line to David. As he caught it, something snapped in the boy's mind. He filled the glass from the water pitcher, banged it on the table, yelled "Officer"! and slung it back to his face. Every one was very quiet. Fullerton's face was red, David's white. Uproar broke into the quiet. "Good Lord, what's got Brooks? Did you see that .. . Hey Brooks .. . what .. . why ..." Barton grabbed Fullerton's shoulder to hold him back, and then stood up. "Quiet! Brooks, we'll see you during C. Q.!" Peace slipped back, leaving only a wondering murmur. David sank a little lower in his chair, and asked himself why he was such a fool. When he and Robert returned to the room after call to quarters, David drew the uncompleted letter to his father from the desk. Though he glanced at him nervously, Roberts avoided speaking to him, and he was left undisturbed to finish the letter. "... I think I'll get a corporalcy at Christmas. And, by the way, Dad, the final company games are next Saturday. Battery ought to smear the band. I . . . " His pen dropped. Across the hall Dun was talking about government inspection. A moan about "Henry Esmond" drifted in from another room. Where were Fullerton and Barton? He couldn't write his brave letter now. It had been hard before, but since mess tonight. ... A knock on the door answered his doubts about Fullerton and Barton. They entered briskly. Barton dismissed Roberts and began curtly: "Listen, Brooks, you've been a lousy plebe since September. Tonight you showed just a little too much crust. There'd be a lot more excuse for the mess you're making of yourself if you were a weakling. You're good material, but you don't do anything right. That gag you pulled tonight can queer you...." "Good material . . . " David forgot to listen to the rest of the tirade. So

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he was good material for this military life. That was funny. He wouldn't have imagined any remote possibility of his fitting in. "Good material." It meant he could be like Roberts perhaps. He tried to forget that too.

At 6:20 Sunday morning David gropingly turned off the alarm clock. He awoke suddenly faintly remembering that something terrible had happened and lay looking up at the ceiling with a sick feeling in his heart. His memory cleared in the coldness of the room. His father was coming. David shivered, longing to go back to sleep and forget it, but Roberts had heard the alarm too and was thumping on his bed. "All right, Brooks, let's get going. . ." He jerked the covers back and hurried him into his bathrobe and slippers. Shuffling from room to room, closing windows, they met other vaguely bundled forms carrying out the same mission. David scraped around mechanically. Dad would be here in time for the parade today. At noon dazedly he wondered why he had written his brave letters. What did you do when you had built up happiness for somebody and they appeared and found out that it was all a lie? Futilely he tried to plan what he would do. He wouldn't be able to look at Dad when it all came out. Dad would be so quiet, he would only say, "Well, son . .. ," or perhaps, "I'm sorry . . ." and he, David, would have to look away. All morning David moved stupidly. He even forgot to resent the routine which had always made him writhe with discontent. Blindly he marched into chapel, stood at attention as the color guards strode up the aisle and draped the flags in their holders. "Onward, Christian Soldiers" rang in his ears and he failed to frown because it was a march. Dad was coming and he had nothing to offer. He slumped down in his seat. An old man behind him jabbed his back. "Sit up, plebe." Absently he thrust back his shoulders. If only he could sit here for hours with the minister's voice intoning meaningless words, if only chapel could go on and on. Music cut into his thoughts. The regimental staff rose. The colors passed. The corps were dispersing. David stood alone. Now at "Message Center" Dad was waiting for him. Maybe Dad had already been told. David could hear Colonel Elliott. ... "Mr. Brooks, I wanted to speak to you about your son. He hasn't entered into school activities as we had hoped. His attitude toward the military discipline has been unsatisfactory, and we feel. ..." David started toward "Message Center" at a run. He must get there before someone told Dad, must put off disaster for a while. He passed the corps filing out to the parade field. He had almost forgotten that he was off duty because Dad was coming. He and Dad were going to watch the parade together. Watch parade! How many fellows had ever seen one? Most of them, like himself, were always part of it. But here was Dad, smiling and saying, "Well, son ..." quietly, but without

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disappointment in his voice. So for a few hours it would be all right. No one had spoken to him. As they strolled out to the field, his father talked enthusiastically of David's success. "I can't tell you how proud I am about that corporalcy, boy. That means a good deal for a plebe. You ought to have a commission by the time you're a first classman." David stifled a choking sensation in his throat and contributed cheerfully to the conversation. "I'm glad you're pleased, Dad! I wanted to show you how I appreciate all this. It's great. And my roommate . . . you'll like him." Suddenly he gasped with surprise. They had reached the reviewing stand and the corps stretched in long, long formation waiting for the manual of arms. The stiff line of infantry standing erect, their long white legs topped by the gray brassbuttoned coats, above the coats rows of clean-cut serious faces, topped by their black-plumed shakos. Next the troop flashing their spurs, uniforms criss crossed by golden breast cords, the spirited horses pawing eagerly for the renewed beat of music. Then the Battery, field artillery in orderly brown rows, mounted officers controlling the lead horses with strong skillful hands, breast cords in the famous Battery red draped from shoulder to shoulder. David tried to pick out the position of his caisson, found his place filled by an unknown plebe. This great pattern of red, gold, white and gray, woven about those grave young faces, was this the School he had hated so? Seeing it like this, you couldn't hate it, could you? It was big and fine and beautiful. To play a tiny part in this was to help create perfection. All his life he might be proud of having helped to make this. He wanted to rush out to the plebe in his place and tell him to sit that caisson well, that it was a privilege. He wished that that plebe were he, David Brooks, so that he might shout across the field to him what a fool he had been. Commissioned cadets were approaching now in "officer's center," their capes drifting outward behind them. Heels clicked abruptly like a single shot, sabres streaked upwards, then gleamed down again till the tips touched the ground. David grabbed his father. Beaming, he cried out: "Gee, Dad, I love it." Mr. Brooks himself was beaming. "I know you do, son." Dad said he knew. Yes, David had almost forgotten. He had said he loved it before. Dad didn't know that this was different. What was that that Barton had said about "good material"? A vague idea became a definite decision. He released his father's arm. "Say, Dad, I have to tear down to the Administration Building and catch Colonel Elliott when he comes in from parade. I—I've got something to tell him. I'll meet you at the Inn." And he dashed off before his father could answer. Waiting in Colonel Elliott's office, David began to formulate his speech. He felt distinctly that his father must not know of his failure. Before, his disappointment was to be dreaded, but now, now that he had at last something to give, he could not bear the thought. It was little enough, this new love of his,

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but it was the beginning of all his father wanted for him. How could he explain to Colonel Elliott this need of his, the need to be granted a fresh start for the days ahead? With a second chance it would be possible to fill those letters of his with the truth, to fill all the empty things he had said with real enthusiasm. The door opened, and Colonel Elliott entered. "Well, Brooks?" David flushed. What could he say? The feeling was precious, subtle. One didn't express things like this. "Sir, I— I—it's sort of about Dad, really, sir. You see. . . ." It was hard. It was unutterably embarrassing, it was a sort of torture, to tell about his letters. It was confusing to try to convince someone of this new spirit which he himself had hardly grasped yet, but as he talked it became simpler. Colonel Elliott remained silent for a moment when David finished. Then he answered David's plea. When the boy finally turned down the road to the Inn everything had become so clear, so simple. His letters to Dad would be so easy to write, from now on. That night, David and his father left the Inn and strolled along the lake shore back to the barracks. Quiet night smoothed the stern substantial quality of the buildings into softness. Timid gold-flecked ripples stole silently up the beach from the lake. Overhead, the sky itself seemed a kindly darkened background for the moon, which the turrets of the barracks were trying to prick, hopefully. The sidewalks in front of the buildings formed a silvery network as mellowed as the shadows of the bricks in the dark walls. In single files the silvered trees twined friendly arms as if to please the glowing golden eyes that were the barracks' windows. David and his father paused at the steps. "Gee, Dad, I just want you to know ... I .. . I'm crazy about it here, Dad. On the level. . . ." Somewhere in the distance taps sounded their peaceful song. From across the lake drifted back the quiet promise ... "all is well ... safely rest." MARY ELLEN MOWBRAY, 1935

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Miss Abigail fell over the auditorium. Miss Sarah, on the left of the stage, A HUSH gave the signal for the lights to be turned out. There was a whir, a lumpy square of light on the screen, and then a not-very-clear picture of the first Dennis school, built years ago. A shout of acclaim rose from the pupils of the present Dennis. The older people of the audience, mothers and grandmothers, who had gone to the first Dennis, felt a little sentimental. Then, with Miss Sarah's quavery, elderly voice explaining them, came more pictures—former pupils, the old school and the new, scenes from previous occasions such as this, and last of all, a picture of the beloved Miss Abigail. The quiet grew deeper, accentuated only by a few sniffs here and there. When the lights went up, all, from Miss Sarah down to the present pupils, were just a little puffy around the eyes. As the school filed out, dressed in traditional white, the usual delighted, boastful murmur ran through the crowd of relatives and friends. "Whew!" sighed Gail Skinner, when they were outdoors in the sunshine, "I thought I'd never live through Miss Sarah's ramble. She's really too old to stand up and make a speech." "I wonder how many of these people really knew Miss Abigail. It's really a birthday party for her," said one of her companions. "I expect most of them knew her. Miss Abigail knew everyone, absolutely. And she only died ten years ago," replied Gail. "Everyone, whether they really came in contact with her or not, seems to have adored Miss Abigail. I wonder why?" spoke up another of the gathering group of girls. "I don't know," answered Gail. "All I can remember about her is that she was bats on the subject of good sportsmanship." The conversation was interrupted by a group of girls who had just heard of Gail's approaching tennis tournament. Miss Sarah broke in among the congratulations: "What is all the noise about?" Everyone tried to explain at once that Gail was to play in the finals of the state-wide Junior Tennis Tournament. "It will be the third time she's won the cup, Miss Sarah," announced one of the girls, "and now Dennis can keep it." Gail, a little embarrassed by the way her coming success was being taken for granted, cried, "Let's go to lunch. Miss Abigail's birthday always makes me ravenous!" There was a gay class luncheon at the Boat Club, with congratulations pouring in on Gail. The match was two weeks off, but it was more or less foreordained that she would win the championship. During lunch and the swim which followed it, the conversation centered around Gail and her tennis. Her classmates were awfully proud of her, and Gail didn't mind very much being in the limelight. She was used to it.

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As she dressed after swimming, Gail heard, fairly close, voices which were vaguely familiar. She couldn't quite place the speakers, but they seemed to be girls she knew slightly. It was impossible not to hear this conversation: "Did you hear all the fuss around Gail Skinner?" asked one. "I'll say," replied the second. "What was it all about? The usual thing?" "Oh yes. She's representing Dennis in the finals of the state tournament next month. I think it's a crime. Anyone who knows as much tennis as that girl should be a professional, not an amateur. She'll win, she always does, and she just licks the pants off her inexperienced opponents." "But she works awfully hard. Every time she turns around she's having a lesson, or practicing, or eating spinach." "That's just the point. This is supposed to be fair competition. But how can it be when you match a girl who has the best teachers, the best equipment, a chance to play in the south in winter and north in summer, and so forth and so on, with one who plays as a hobby, when she gets the chance? So much money has been spent on her that it isn't even funny. It's poor sportsmanship, I think." "I don't 'spose there's anything we can do. Anyhow, after this year she'll be too old for the Junior championship," replied the other. "All ready? Let's go!" The voices faded away and ended with two splashes in the chatter outside. Gail finished dressing, trying to calm herself. What right had they to talk that way? Poor sportsmanship. ... An attendant's voice calling "Miss Skinner, your car is here," cut short her rage. All week-end, between tennis lessons, practice, and enforced sleep, the conversation she had overheard tortured Gail. Though she continually tried to dismiss it with the thought, "It's only two people I hardly know," it kept popping up. She was completely miserable. Monday was a gloomy, moist day. Gail felt awfully depressed. Her exercises, given by an unsympathetic instructor in a clammy gym, didn't help. Afterwards she walked through the deserted hall to the library where someone had built a fire to take the chill out of the river mist. Gail plunked herself down on the nearest chair, hoping her car would come soon. How utterly loathsome it was outside! But in here the dying fire made warmth and comfort. Miss Abigail smiled serenely down from her slim gold frame. It was nice to have her back where she belonged, after her Friday birthday party. Gail wondered if Miss Abigail felt a year older. She looked ageless. It would have been grand to know her. Why should her almost fanatical insistence on good-sportsmanship make her so beloved by everyone? Oh, oh! there it was again, that thing that had been haunting Gail all week-end. But she wasn't a poor sport. Everyone didn't

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think so. That was just bickering. Good grief! If you stopped to think of every little detail, you wouldn't get very far. Gail's mind went around in painful circles one way, and then unwound and went the other way. Why should she even think about such things? Resolutely, Gail wrenched at her thoughts, and tried to decide how old Miss Abigail would be if she were living. She must have been fairly mature when she taught her mother. Gail remembered that her grandmother had gone to school with Miss Abigail Dennis, long before she thought of building the school. Her rebel thoughts went back to the problem of good sportsmanship without any warning. Why couldn't she be left alone? Why should what a few twits said bother her? She sat and wrestled for several minutes. Miss Abigail had a peculiar, wistful sort of expression. Gail thought wildly, "How can I help it if I have more money than the others?" A car horn blared outside. Gail gathered up her books to leave. As she looked at Miss Abigail again, the rebellion seemed to leave her. She might have known it would be settled Miss Abigail's way. "All right, Miss Abigail. I'll be a good sport." For two generations, Miss Abigail had been the guardian angel of girls growing up into a changing world. Now, from a distance, she nodded approval at a third. GERTRUDE BLOOD, 1935

I will lay aside books And sing my own songs, This day that is melting into Spring. Slim wind is slipping Over my doorstep And her sigh turns the door on its hinges With the wandering word Come— The day is washed clean— Still touch of dampness On the hands of the wind. The wind has had answers In sweet springs past Many have written her response Yet I will lay aside books And sing my own songs, This day that is melting into Spring. MARY ELLEN MOWBRAY, 1935

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The Saviour of Hadley AS PETER BEAMAN split the last rail, he whistled and Watch bounded out of the woods. Peter slung his gun over his shoulder, handed the bread sack to the dog, and swung down the cart-path toward the stockade. The cart-path was little more than a path; with bushes and stumps cluttering it, it crept slowly down the hill to the valley, winding painstakingly between rocks and ledges until it came to the little brook. Here Peter stopped, and kneeling drank from his hands. Then he stood up and looked down over Hadley. Five years ago this had been a broad valley, covered with trees; now log houses lay in the center of the valley, made from these same trees. Here and there, too, a hardy pioneer had ventured to build his home far from the stockade. How snug and safe Hadley looked, surrounded by its purple hills. A haze hung over everything; and even the sun dropping behind the hills was grayed by the September smoke. Roused to realization of the present by the setting sun, Peter trudged on down the path, past Thomas Prince's lot, past the well-fenced cornfield of Gamaliel Keyes, and on to the cabin of Richard Goodnow. Here was a stout-hearted man who had dared to build his home on the outskirts of civilization, at the fork of the Boston Post Road. Peter stopped to see how the family was and to find out if the postie had adden up from Boston. Assured that the mail had come, Peter strode off up the Post Road towards town. Five minutes later Peter neared the stockade. It loomed, a massive black bulk, in the darkness, sheltering and protecting. Built of huge logs, stripped of bark, it was pierced with holes for guns. At each corner was a tower, taller than the rest of the building, which was lighted by several small windows heavily shuttered, through which the guard might watch for Indians and direct the fighting. Here was a sure friend to this hardy race in time of stress. Next to the stockade stood Mr. Russell's house. As he passed the tiny window Peter saw the minister seated with his family at supper, and he was urged on to greater speed at the thought of his own family waiting anxiously at the door for him—and with the family a letter, saying perhaps that his brother would soon join them in New England; a letter from England . . . England—he had fought for supremacy of Parliament over King there; England—where he had married Abigail; England—there Prudence, John, Patience and Caleb were born; England—where most of his life had been spent; finally, England—his ancestral home, which he had left for the freedom awaiting him in this new and rugged country. But even the Pilgrims and the Puritans had grown harsh and unbending in this hard new land, and Peter had had to seek further for liberty. As Peter's thoughts turned again to his own home, he glanced up to find himself at the path; there in the darkness stood the children peering into

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the dusk, fearing he had encountered a stray Indian. He hurried up the path, preceded by Watch, to be warmly welcomed. As he entered he stooped. Inside, his beaver cap brushed the rafters of the low-studded room as he joined his wife. Abigail knelt on the hearth before the fire, and as Peter entered, she rose and carried the kettle to the table; then from the Dutch oven she took a plate of steaming cornbread, made today as part of her week's baking. John's efforts in behalf of the supper had been duly rewarded by two fine partridges, and with the kettle of tea the family made a happy meal. And because it was Saturday night they all ate from the prized pewter dishes, taken from their customary places on the wall. Here still sat the coffee-pot and the toddy pitcher in solitary splendor, dully gleaming with the ruddy glow of the fire. When the dishes were once more in their places, the family grouped itself around the father, for evening prayers and the letter. After minutes and minutes, each child mounted to the loft, carrying a bayberry candle, taken from the mantle— beneath the gun. And after the bolt in the door had been shot, Abigail and Peter left their settles on either side of the hearth, and Watch was alone. He slumbered and dozed but fitfully through the dark night, but with the coming of dawn he dropped off to sleep, to be the first to waken, when the sun peeped through the window. After a hasty breakfast, the family set out for church. Down the road strode Peter, accompanied by Abigail who trotted in a vain attempt to keep up with her well-armed husband. Behind walked Prudence and John, and lastly Patience and Caleb. All too soon, for the children, they were entering the church. In the nearest corner Peter stacked his gun among the others. The family sat down in order of age with Peter on the outside. All contained themselves very well during the singing of the Doxology and the passing of the money-box. Indeed the minds of all were intent on the hour of prayer, but with the conclusion of the singing of the Eleventh Psalm, at least one mind began to wander. Peter was thinking of the letter from England, Jonathan and Ephraim would be coming in the spring, and Peter must have homes for them. Here they would feel much more safe from the persecution likely to fall to them as Roundheads. But even here one couldn't feel absolutely safe, for just yesterday, Peter had heard that the Regicide judges were hunted and pursued again. Peter now turned his mind back to this service. From the corner of his eye he noticed the tithing-man creeping silently down the aisle. There were Goodman Upton and his wife both asleep. The tithing-man was rapping the man soundly on the head with the brass knob at the end of his pole. Soon he'd turned his pole around and tickled the Goodwife with his fox's tale. What scandal there would be at the end of the sermon! But Peter felt sorry for them— probably they had to work too hard. Peter had just turned his gaze toward the minister, in time to see him

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turn the hour-glass a second time when he was suddenly aware of a hushed stillness. The minister was tense and silent—then pandemonium broke loose. The aisle was full of men; someone cried "Indians"; there was a smell of smoke in the air; guns were being cocked; orders were being shouted; the cattle filled the air with bellows of terror; small children were crying. Peter cocked his gun and stepped outside the door to be met with a volley of shots. As he fired, Peter was aware that more Indians were appearing. They peered from behind houses, and looking along their barrels, shot. Their shots took little effect, but, for that matter, the settlers wounded few Indians. Peter withdrew to the protection of the church. With the others, he loaded and fired, loaded and fired, without pause for breath. And now it occurred to him that when the powder they had among them was gone they must die. Here they were separated from the stockade which they had built for just such an emergency! Caught like rats in a trap! He paused in his firing, gathered the elders around him to plan. Time was short; they must do something, and do it quickly. Peter checked their plans for abandoning the town, reminding them that they would surely be killed on the slow march with their wives and small children. Peter was still trying to devise a plan—a hurried attempt to reach the stockade perhaps, when suddenly, from the smoke there came a very old, whitebearded man. He held his tall figure with military erectness, noticeable even at this distance. He approached quickly hailing the men with an air of authority and decisiveness which drew the settlers to him immediately. They realized that this was a soldier, a leader. He laid his plans, and soon Peter and a group of picked men crept off through the long grass behind the church, to the woods, for as yet the Indians had not surrounded the church. Inside the woods they moved cautiously from bush to bush, Peter leading the way. Where had he seen that face before? It was familiar! the far Now he was getting farther from the Indians. He drew in towards With houses. burning the among was he end of the village street. Now redmen. cting unsuspe the of backs the on sudden fury they bore down ves atThe latter fled swiftly and noiselessly, perhaps believing themsel for to Hadley coming be to known tacked by militia from New Haven, garrison duty. to With the departure of the last Indians, Peter returned to the church houses nearer the from bedding and find the villagers already carrying food ared. Some there to the stockade. The mysterious stranger had disappe all agreed that he and heaven; were who thought him an angel sent from knew the truth. few a Only " was most certainly the "Saviour of Hadley. others build helping to turned After a night spent in the stockade, Peter , and where familiar was face new houses. And still he wondered why the

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he had seen it. Afterwards, during the long days while he plowed his new field in preparation for the next spring's planting, he thought often of the mysterious stranger. It was possible that he had seen the man in one of the battles under Cromwell, but not very probable. One Sabbath after services, the rumor came to him that soldiers were expected from Boston to search for Regicides, who were suspected to be hiding in Hadley. Then Peter remembered. ... Before him he saw huge crowds milling around a large building; an usher, appearing in the doorway, announcing to the excited throng that Charles I had been sentenced to death; sixty-five sober, gaunt men coming from the building— soldiers, Cromwellites; conspicuous among them for his height the man for whose face Peter had searched—Goffe, and with him his father-inlaw, Edward Whalley. At last he knew! Now Peter, in his search for the Regicides' hiding place, remembered a tall figure passing the minister's window. When Peter frankly asked where Goffe was, the minister said he was concealing the two men. He needed help to prevent their being found in the search. This Peter gladly gave. As the soldiers came down the street to Mr. Russell's house, two tall forms might have been seen creeping out of the minister's back window, through the long grass behind the house, and into Peter's back window. The soldiers went away without their prisoners, and Hadley had fittingly thanked its "Saviour." SUSANNAH MIRICK, 1935

Due to the Weather seventh dawned cold and dreary, with a drizzling rain, but regardJUNE less of the weather Bancroft School held its Commencement. The hall was decorated with green plants, transported from Green Hill. The Graduating Class wore white knitted dresses with three-quarter length capes which were made by a member of the class, white shoes with suction heels and white gaiters which were purchased at the last minute (being a bit small the zippers caused continual trouble). They carried old-fashioned bouquets of snowdrops tied with white ribbons, and they made a lovely picture as they marched down the aisle between admiring parents and friends. The speaker, Rev. P. D. Storm, gave an address on "The Ability to Overlook Obstacles," which he was unable to make convincing because of a slight knocking in the radiators that increased in volume as the heat circulated through the hall. There was a slight interruption in the address when one of the seniors, in her haste, fell through the ceiling (she was late), causing a resounding crack to echo through the hall.

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Following Reverend Storm's address the fourteen seniors went forward and stood in a group on the steps of the platform and sang their farewell song (to the tune of "Stormy Weather"). After receiving their diplomas, they marched to the side door where they were helped into white fur coats and white rain hats as they filed out to the traditional ivy planting. The girls grouped themselves around a small fir tree and stood motionless, icicles forming on the branches of the little tree and on the wide brims of their hats, while one of the group (aided by a second girl who held an umbrella) gave a fifteen minute speech—in slush, telling briefly of their happy years spent 'neath the roof of learning, inwardly wishing that roof was over them now. Then each girl in turn added a trowel full of frozen mud to the roots of the stiff tree. During this ceremony the sophomore sisters appeared, in the school uniform of dark blue skirt, white shirt, and black bow tie, carrying masses of crocuses and dandelions imported from the south which the graduates gratefully received between coughing and sneezing. Congratulations were received to the accompaniment of blowing noses. Brandy and soda and hot whisky were served in the modernistic senior room, after which the girls left the school to find what the world had in store for them. FRANCES HILL, 1935

Opera' in S.H. Setting—As the curtain rises we see a solemn looking place with many black desks lined in wiggley rows suggesting the sort of place no one likes to be. As well as the black desks there are blackboards and a black piano. To finish off this colorless setting, dull green shades hang from the windows in various angles. Each shade has its own special lattice-work due to the constant pullings and yankings. With this setting our opera opens. The orchestra strikes at once into the main bell theme, played stridently and briefly on the gong. Then follows a heavy-footed melody played by the drums as the pupils come into the study hall. Voices rise higher and higher singing: "Hello there, how are you? You're looking awfully blue." "I thought I would be late Because I had to wait Until the car would go. We had to get a tow." 'See Latin Dictionary.

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"I'm feeling very gay There're two more months till May, Ten days until vacation, And then comes graduation. From there we'll homeward turn And Bancroft will adjourn No more we'll have to learn." The piccolo comes in with a quick running up and down the scales as the Freshmen start off the day with their giggles. This is interrupted by several loud clashes on the cymbals as the last lockers are being slammed. This keeps up until interrupted by the repetition of the main bell theme followed closely by the secondary bell theme played on the triangle. Several antiphonal selections are now brought in. A high soprano is heard ordering lunch. She is contrasted by an instrument called the "tibby" (more commonly known as the tuba) booming out short deep bass tones. This is explained by a bass singer echoing in a monotone, "soup", "soup." A school chant is introduced and is played by the piano and sung in the silvery upper ranges by a sleepy chorus. At this time the castanets click, representing the click of Miss Dresser's heels as she hastily comes down the hall. Her head appears on the stage and she breaks into a staccato solo. Then a plaintive solo is heard from a girl who is always losing her pen. This last is interrupted by the staccato solo coming in again; it fades a little and we think it will stop but again it appears. Finally the repetition of the click of the castanets is heard becoming more and more distant. The secondary bell theme recurs and then the violins bring in a humming tune. Soon all is calmed and the orchestra plays a "work theme" in a minor key. This is interrupted at regular intervals by the recurrence of the main bell theme, always followed after a few bars, by the secondary bell theme which varies from a light tinkling (Mrs. Post) to a loud decided clang which cuts through the most powerful utterances of the orchestra (Miss Clark). A chorus of small children is heard frequently during the above intervals. Their voices are sometimes reckless but they are calmed by a coaxing theme representing their teacher. At times little piping tones are sweetly played by the flute as the children romp, with an occasional click of the castanets to call them together when they become scattered. The repetition of the main bell theme makes a great change in our opera. There is a gradual swell in the music as pupils come back from classes for the long awaited recess. The rhythm rushes to a climax. Cymbals crash as the lockers are banged and voices grow stronger and more intense. Suddenly the first bell theme sounds and there is a running theme as the pupils try to get back into the study hall without being late. When next

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FRESHMEN Standing: Anne Bigelow, Irene McLaurin, Elizabeth Young, Nancy Hutchins, Barbara Bigelow, Margery Ann Williams, Barbara Emmons, Joan Ashey. Seated: Suzanne Sigourney, Anne Cook, Virginia MacFarland, Marthy Esty. Not in Picture: Penelope Allen, Louise Erskine.

JUNIORS Standing: Mary Annis Haskell, Merle Higgins, Ruth Windle. Seated: Dorothy Dean, Barbara Gummere, Carol Churchman, Priscilla Martin.

SOPHOMORES Standing: Doreen Wise, Frances Dresser, Helen Hunter. Seated: Nancy Campbell, Jane Baker, Mary Lee Sparrow, Elizabeth Forbes. Not in Picture: Anne Day, Barbara Heywood.

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the bell theme sounds, a voice of authority speaks. It is not a wordless voice of an orchestral instrument but a vigorous baritone in a kindly command saying as she rings the bell, "Oh friends, no more these discords." There is once more a hush and a dreamy, drowsy theme is introduced as the day moves slowly by. The now familiar bell theme is heard for the last time. Immediately the orchestra breaks in, first softly, then suddenly working to the climax of a crescendo. It is dismissal time. Cymbals crash, drums boom, violins hum and even a bit of jazz is heard sung by part of the chorus. When the music has reached an almost unbearable climax, the diminuendo begins, restful themes replace the agitating one and gradually fade away into silence. DOROTHY DEAN, 1936, and the Junior Class.

My Neighbor Her dusting and her sweeping Each one of her small chores Is done before the sun is warm And shines on polished floors. Her pillows look like soldiers As standing in a drill Placed at different intervals So scared they stand quite still. And now the dishes are all washed The sink is shining bright She knits beside the window To watch 'til late at night. All spick and span she goes to church On every Sabbath morn And tries to find some scandal The sermon going on. Oh yes—she gives to charity But only with her hands Her heart she saves most righteously For "heathens" in far lands. MARY ANNIS HASKELL, 1936

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The Juniors Outside the study hall on a leafless birch Two little birds on a twig did perch. And through the windows they could see— The seven girls in upper three. They looked at Carol and with a scowl They twittered the song, "I'm a night owl." They thought of her studying hard and long— That's why it's such an appropriate song. They also sang to Dotty too The song, "Don't let it bother you." Because she's such a carefree lass— I guess we'd better let it pass. For "Gummy" the happy song they sang Was a hit, and went over with a bang. Because of her happiness and no woes They sang her the song, "Anything Goes." For Priscilla next they began to sing. Because of the happiness she's sure to bring To everyone both far and near— They sang the song, "What Cheer, What cheer!" They stood erect with bill apart And sang the song that broke Anne's heart. We all know the letters she gets from Al, So they sang her the song, "Dear old Pal." Their eyes on Merle at last did rest And they thought of a song that would fit her best. They hopped to the ground, and perched on a log— And twittered for Merle, "Lost in a Fog." They then began to sing this song— And I'm pretty sure they can't be wrong When they sing "Blame it on my Youth"— For the youngest in the class named Ruth. MERLE HIGGINS, 1936 RUTH WINDLE, 1936

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On Getting Up in the Morning IT IS said that one can become accustomed to anything, even hanging, if the act is repeated often enough. As I grow older I believe this less and less. I have been getting up every morning for a little more than sixteen years, and I am not used to it yet. It was just as hard for me to get up this morning as it was a year ago, or for that matter, ten years ago. I have very little hope that time will make this daily task easier for me. I have often wondered why it is so hard for me to get up in the morning. Why should I wish to stay in bed until the last minute? After I once get up, I do not care to lie down again. I once asked a friend of mine to help solve this problem for me, and she said that the whole trouble came in the way I was awakened. She advised me to buy a good alarm clock, and said that if I were awakened suddenly and regularly every day, the habit of wishing to stay in bed late could be easily overcome. I bought the clock and used it, but without success. If I put it close to my bed at night, I would reach out the next morning and cut the alarm short when it rang, and then go peacefully back to sleep. On the other hand, if I put it out of reach I would lie still in bed and wait patiently for the spring to run down, and then turn quietly over and begin to snooze. After the alarm-clock episode, I tried the most common way in the world, that is, having some kind soul, who gets up early, to wake me. For nearly a month some one at home volunteered to do this for me, but not one of them ever succeeded in getting me up right away. Even their threats and blows failed to disturb me. I would open my eyes, smile sweetly, and go back to sleep again. Finally my mother, becoming very disgusted and all out of patience with me, gave me a long lecture on the subject of early and late risings. She tried to persuade me by telling me that I had lots of ambition and that it was a shame to waste the best hours of the day in bed, but even this did not stir me. After giving up for a time, mother again took up the subject by repeating to me the story of the "early bird catching the worm." I wasn't so much impressed as I should have been by this tale of mother's: I felt too sorry for the poor worm. If that worm had stayed in bed a little longer, he would not have been caught by the bird. But, after all, he had no one to blame but himself. It makes no difference what the season of the year is, I always get up late. In the winter my bed is warm and the room is cold. Why should I suddenly change from warm and comfortable to cold and uncomfortable? In the summer it is cool and comfortable in my bed with just a faint breeze blowing across my face, while outside the fierce sun is shining. When finally I get up, how different I must look from those who have been up since the early hours, who look hot and tired and dusty. I am afraid that I shall never get over my habit of late rising. For after

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all, is there any advantage in getting up early? A chicken goes by the saying "early to bed, early to rise" all his life, and finally his head is cut off and he is made into a pie; while the owl, who is said to be the wisest of birds, stays up all night, sleeps all day, lives to be quite old, and is never eaten. I wonder if those who get up early are happier than I? Do they enjoy life anymore? If they do, their happiness must be of the highest rank. PRISCILLA MARTIN, 1936

Growing Up IT CERTAINLY seemed as though an important chapter of my life was A. opening as I hurried up the walk, opened the door, and entered the beauty parlor for my first permanent. It was a long awaited day, and I hardly knew how to greet this barbaric procedure. All the horrible tales I had heard of hair being pulled, burned, and scorched made me wonder what I was in for, but the memory of the miraculous results it had had on some of my friends overcame my fear. Each instant while I was helpless in the hands of the hairdresser, my wonder and curiosity increased, for all sorts of evil smelling lotions were being poured on to my hair, and when the many tiny square parts made my head resemble a checkerboard I was indeed surprised. The next torture was to have about twenty-six spears suddenly shoot from my scalp like so many horns. The instructions for the next step startled me so that I almost made a dash for home and safety, but upon looking at myself in the mirror I decided that perhaps it would take less courage to remain in that room away from prying eyes. As each sheathe was put on the tiny spears I remembered that I must not move a quarter of an inch to either north, east, south or west, or the results would be most disastrous. Also that if I slumped in the chair there would be no results and the torture must be gone through again. Click, went the button; and as the heat increased, so increased that load on my mind until it seemed more than I could bear. What if there should be a fire? There I was held prisoner at the point of twenty-six spears and unable to budge. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" a cheerful voice inquired and deft hands immediately removed me from my plight. It certainly was a relief to be able to move again. When my hair was again free of horns and such, I felt as if a great misfortune had befallen me for my hair was a mass of tiny ringlets resembling the kinkiest of nigger's wool, in all but color. I dared not look again until the cheerful voice said in a relieved tone, "You are all through now. How do you like it?" The result was so startling that I could hardly believe that the lovely wave I saw in the mirror was securely fastened to my head. Yes, I certainly aged that day. MERLE HIGGINs, 1936

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Oh, So Grown Up! DEAR, I am only sixteen. What a young and child-like age to be. OHWhy wasn't I born a few years earlier? Why can't I skip a year or two? I am sorely tempted to when someone asks me how old I am. I don't think people should be allowed to ask one's age. It is such a personal question. Of course though, when I am twenty-one it would be rather nice to be able to say so. What a long way off that seems. I'm sure I shall feel much older than that by that time. Why even now I know my ideas are more mature than those of most girls my age. They are all so silly with their favorite movie actors—Clark Gable, Francis Lederer, George Brent. All they talk about is boys and clothes. Of course I suppose I went through that stage once, but now I realize how much more worth while it is to be intellectual. Why the other day I was discussing our economic situation with my father, you know, about inflation and farmer's relief bills and things like that. I didn't realize how ignorant I was before. Inflation is very absorbing, but I'm not just sure what it is about. Father explained it to me but it is rather a deep subject. I think it has to do with money and all that sort of thing. Then all the girls dash for the funny paper. I prefer to read the horoscope. It is too thrilling to know the next day's events and at just what hour to be cautious. I really don't see how people can figure out all that. It must have something to do with the fourth dimension. I went to the fortune teller the other day, and she told me that something tremendous was going to happen to me soon, within ten days. It hasn't happened yet, but I can just feel it in my bones. Every night I lie awake, and think of what it might be, of what could happen to me. I hope it is something sensational, something which will make my school mates realize how much more advanced I am than they, something that will make my parents realize I am old enough to take care of myself and to make my own plans. It is really such a bother to have them advising me constantly what I must do. I wish I could get away to some quiet secluded spot and meditate. You know I really believe I could get some sort of divine connection with spirits if I could be left alone. The other night I was just dozing off to sleep when suddenly something rang through my head, sharp and clear. It sounded exactly like our dear old dog, Muggins, who was killed by an automobile. I am positive that we were connected in some way. Oh dear, I almost forgot. I simply must call up Sally and find out what dress she is going to wear to the dance and who is going and ask her if it is really true that Jane and Bob are together again and then I must find out what time that luncheon is today at Ann's house. We will be able to hash over all the week's gossip. I'll have to hurry. MARY ANNIS HASKELL, 1936

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The Wish of an Old Sailor Oh, I am lonesome as I can be For the rush and roar of the open sea. For the cry of the seagull at the break of day As he listlessly glides across the bay. For the powerful song of the northern gale And the snapping crack of a canvas sail. For all these things I'll always long But now I know they're forever—gone. NANCY CAMPBELL, 1937

Rain ITTING by my window I listen to the swish, swish of the summer rain through the dense foliage of the tree, the swaying of the branches caused by the gentle breath of a warm rain, the steady murmur from the leaves as the rain falls against them. Then, punctuating the peacefulness, comes the soft note of the robin from a nearby drenched tree. BARBARA HEYWOOD, 1937

ALL the rooms in my grandfather's house, the guest room was the ØFonly one which seemed fearful to me. It would have been a sacrilege even to sit on the big canopied bed with its dark grey cover or to touch the geometrically placed brush and comb. The big mirror in its gilded frame, which hung over the massive dresser, was the only one in the house which neither made me look green nor deformed, but I never dared to satisfy my vanity by so much as a glance because from either side of the room my two great-uncles in their powdered wigs frowned down at my frivolousness. I always crept through that room on tiptoe for fear that they would come down from their frames and place me on that wall to stay forever. HELEN HUNTER, 1937

The Feast of King Clenn HERE was a king over Ireland, Clenn by name, who was neither happy nor sad. He had a daughter, Flantre, who was more beautiful than any other woman of Key Sohr or of all Ireland. Her hair was golden and her skin the color of the apple blossoms in spring. Her eyes were as blue and sparkling as the ocean in the sunlight and her hands as white as the foam. Still King Clenn was not satisfied because he thought too much of Flantre. "No man," said he, "is worthy of Flantre. Even so I must find one to make her happy. This I shall do by having a feast for any honest man of all Ireland who wishes to come."

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He called his servants and told them to let it be known about the feast—that Flantre's husband would be chosen from those who came. The news was spread abroad and three times fifty men from all of Ireland came, for they had heard of Flantre, the beautiful daughter of King Clenn. Among those who came was Mahrn, son of Tulor of Larsen Lock. He stood straighter than the others and was mightier. He had a tunic of purple, embroidered with gold, and a gold-hilted sword. His eyes and eyebrows were as dark as the moor at night, and his cheeks as red as the rising sun. Strong was he, and fearless. No man was as brave as he in Key Sohr. And so the feast began, and this is how it was. All the heroes of Ireland were there. Fresh rushes were laid upon the floor, poems were read, songs were sung. They ate and drank and made merry such as they never had done before. After the food was taken away King Clenn got up, and this is what he said: "I have gathered you here so that I may chose the man I think the bravest. His reward will be my daughter, Flantre, who waits without. If any man does not want her, speak now and I won't consider him." No man spoke, and at this the large bolted doors at the far end of the hall were opened. Through them rushed a monstrous hound who stood for a moment ready to spring. His eyes were like darts of fire, and his teeth as sharp as the points of swords. Never had anyone seen such a huge and terrible animal. The hound sprang at the nearest man and tore him limb from limb. All the others shrank back behind benches and tables so they too would not be eaten alive. There was one, however, who was not afraid, and this one was Mahrn. On seeing the hound he ran over tables and benches straight at the beast. As he was drawing his sword the great dog sprang at him, but so quick was Mahrn that he dodged him. The dog fell with a crash on the floor. It was then that Mahrn lunged his goldhilted sword deep into the animal's skin. He struck once, twice, and a third time the hound rolled over dead. At this great defeat, shouts arose from the other men, so loud that all the people of Key Sohr heard it and came to see what was the matter. It was then that King Clenn said after the shouts had quieted, "Mahrn, I believe you to be worthy of Flantre. You have proved your fearlessness while the others all shrank from death. Therefore bring in Flantre and you shall have her for your wife." Amid more shouts of joy Flantre was brought in. She wore a yellow dress which cast a golden light around her as she and Mahrn walked through the door, together. ELIZABETH FORBES, 1937

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Post Tempestatem (A sample of Latin free verse) Aurora fere est Et undae cessant nunc. Tempestas oceano Furebat per noctem. It is almost dawn And the waves cease now. A storm was raging On the ocean through the night.

Navis parva errat Quassata fluctibus. Mergus volat jam Per aera ala. A little ship drifts, Shaken by the waves. The sea gull flies now Winging through the air.

Magnus ruber sol Fluit superne; In caelo umido Est aura placida. The great red sun Floats on high; In the damp sky There is a quiet breeze.

In alba harena Carina tollitur. Ad malum haerebat Nunc nauta languidus. On the white sand The ship is tossed. To the mast was clinging Now an exhausted sailor.

NANCY HUTCHINS, 1938

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I Meet the New Year I stepped out of a dilapidated tenement house of a lonely part of a ASlonely town on a lonely prairie, the wind caught me and blew me down the deserted street. The night was dark and lonesome with the wind wailing a mournful accompaniment. Rounding a corner, a wraith rose out of the blackness and seemed to float through me in the swirling and eddying of the passing gusts. I turned in time to see the figure before it merged into darkness once more. An hour glass in one hand and a scythe over a shoulder told me that the Old Year had passed. After him passed a procession of events that seemed to float like a cloud. First the face of the country's No. 1 criminal peered sinisterly out, then a picture of headlines screaming the Morro Castle disaster followed. The arresting of Bruno Richard Hauptmann, a paper showing the huge Democratic majority in Congress, the fall of the blue eagle; and finally a picture of white sails against blue waters and a large, ornate trophy cup proclaimed the yacht race between William K. Vanderbilt and T. 0. M. Sopwith. Standing on the windy corner, I watched this panorama pass before me and fade into the past. Thinking on what I had seen I walked with difficulty against the wind and rounded another corner, when suddenly I was violently bumped into by a small, vigorous personage. "Well! I am sorry but I really must hurry," said this person in a rushing-about manner. "Really! Everything looks quite hopeful, but 1934 has gone and left me a good deal of work to do." And with these words, he was off. The wind had taken on a friendly tone and blew vigorously. Objects began to shed their air of despondency and look hopeful. The houses were not so lonely and I walked from these eventful corners with a light heart and a springing step. SUZANNE SIGOURNEY, 1938

A Dreary Day IT WAS a dismal, dreary day. 2- My clothes felt cold and clammy, as I sat on a slippery, slimy rock watching the drab coat of mist that covered the sea and being thankful I wasn't out in a little boat alone. A lone seagull flew by me, looking for a place to go in a huge gray cliff behind me. The cliff looked like a curtain to some tragedy. The wind was blowing a little, sending the misty prickly rain against me. It was blowing a clump of wet, dead-looking grass near me, making a hollow dry noise like a witch coughing. PENELOPE ALLEN, 1938

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Heat WAS a swelteringly hot day. The flies buzzed against the screen door JTand bumped their heads angrily against the ceiling. The bees droned monotonously around the garden. I lay lolling on the porch consuming ice water by the pitcher-full. My poor dog was panting heavily in the coolest corner he could find. The heat waves rose incessantly from the scorched sands of the road. A weary cart horse came plodding along the road sending up a puff of dust every time he stepped. His driver was half asleep with his big straw hat pulled down over his eyes. A little green garter snake wiggled slowly across the path seeking cooler ground. My dog who loved to bark at them could do no more than turn his head to follow him with his eyes. I closed my eyes. The heat waves seemed to dance before me and then I guess I fell asleep.

BARBARA EMMONS, 1938

A Day on Main Street During Zero Weather IT WAS an icy, cold day in January. No sun and few people on Main Street. Store windows display heavy, furred clothes. Here is a window with mittens of a dull, cold-looking color, with a hat and scarf to match. This set looks as if it were frozen in the imitation snow, which looks too real. Here is Buffington's. Bottles of cough medicines, nose drops, gargles, etc., are shown in the windows. Iver Johnson has skates, sleds, toboggans, hockey sticks and pucks in their window. I shiver and turn away. Here are two children improperly clad because of poverty. Their faces are pinched with cold. Their purplish, red fingers protrude from what were once mittens but which are now merely rags. One of them has a bad cold. Sniffling and coughing she goes shivering on her way. The policeman on the beat has earlaps and mittens. He is beating his arms together trying to keep warm. Everyone has a red face and watery eyes from the cutting wind. Newspaper headings saying, COLDEST SPELL FOR TEN YEARS. These very words seem to have icicles hanging from them. The trucks of Claflin Sumner Coal Company are frequently seen. Coal business is good anyway. Here comes a rather old car with steam rising from its radiator. Evidently it has frozen. The discouraging clang of chains on somebody's mudguard reaches my ear. This is winter at its height. JOAN ASHBY, 1938

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THE COUNCIL Dean Hoffman, '35 Frances Hill, '35 Priscilla Martin, '36 Barbara Gummere,'36 Helen Hunter, '37 Miss Fisher

President Secretary Jane Baker, 37 Margery Ann Williams, '38 Louise Erskine, '38 Faculty Advisor

BLUE MOON BOARD MARY ELLEN MOWBRAY Editor-in-chief MARY ELISABETH ROBINSON Assistant Editor BARBARA MACFARLAND Literary Editor Manager SUSANNAH MIRICK Business Assistant Business Manager CAROL CHURCHMAN MARY ANNIS HASKELL Art Editor MISS BLAIR, Faculty Advisor COMMITTEES THE SOCIAL COMMITTEE Becky Bursley,'35, Chairman Merle Higgins, '36 Barbara Goodwin, '35 Anne Day, '37 Janet Heywood,'35 Barbara Heywood,'37 Sylvia Collins, '35 Miss Estee, Faculty Advisor During the year the committee has sponsored the following events: October 19 The Prize Speaking Tea December 8 Blue Moon Luncheon Supper for Glee Club Concert April 27 May 18 The School Dance THE COMMUNITY CHEST Janet Heywood, '35, Chairman Margaret Long, 1935 Nancy Campbell, 1937 Mary Annis Haskell, 1936 Martha Esty, 1938 Barbara Bigelow, 1938 Priscilla Martin, 1936 Miss Smith, Faculty Advisor This year the Chest took in $200 in pledges. Money has been given to Hampton Institute, the Worcester Golden Rule Fund, and the Sterling Health Camp. Magazines, clothes, toys, and food have been given to the Associated Charities, the Child Guidance Clinic, the Children's Friend Society, the City Hospital, State Hospital, Tubercular Hospital, and the Rutland Veteran's Hospital.

BLUE MOON BOARD

BASKETBALL TEAM

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CENSUS COMMITTEE Jane Baker, 1937 Ruth Maya11, 1935, Chairman Penelope Allen, 1938 Priscilla Martin, 1936 Miss Clark, Faculty Advisor LIBRARY COMMITTEE Gertrude Blood, 1935, Chairman Elizabeth Forbes, 1937 Sue Mirick, 1935 Hunter, 1937 Helen 1935 Hoffman, Dean Erskine, 1938 Louise 1935 Ruth Maya11, MacFarland, 1938 1935 Virginia Robinson, Mary Elisabeth Ann Williams, 1938 Margery 1936 Dorothy Dean, Advisor Miss Blair, Faculty REPORT OF THE LIBRARY COMMITTEE Through the enthusiastic cooperation of students, faculty, parents, and friends, the library has had a very successful year. A total of 249 books has been added through purchase and gifts. Of these, about 75, most of them given by lower school children, form the nucleus of a lower school library which has been started this year. Also, the library has been given sets of back copies of Time, The Readers Digest, The National Geographic, the Atlantic, and the London Illustrated News. Due to Miss Blair's skill in stretching the dollar, our small fund resulting from gifts and fines has gone astonishingly far. We now have 1,800 books completely accessioned and catalogued with subject cards. Of these 700 have been done this year, and there are still about 400 to be done. We wish to thank particularly Mrs. Kennedy, other parents, Upper School volunteers, the eighth grade girls, Miss Blair, and the other faculty as well as the regular committee for their invaluable help. The library committee and the Upper School volunteers have whole-heartedly taken up the drudgery of thorough checking, with the result that we have lost only one book this year. Because of the fine manuscript writing of the eighth grade girls, our cards are exceptionally uniform and legible. GLEE CLUB OFFICERS Director Accompanist President Secretary Treasurer Librarian Assistant Librarian

Frances Omar Weeks Nancy Miller Dorr Barbara Goodwin Janet Heywood Barbara Gummere Elizabeth Forbes Nancy Hutchins

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PROGRAM OF BANCROFT-GOVERNOR DUMMER CONCERT Two Chorales Bach Break Forth, 0 Beauteous Heavenly Light, from "The Christmas Oratorio" Jesus, Joy of Man's Desiring, from the Cantata, "Herz und Mund und That und Leben" COMBINED CLUBS Lift Thine Eyes Mendelssohn Mozart The Alphabet Purcell Sound the Trumpet BANCROFT SCHOOL GLEE CLUB Praetorius Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming arranged by Davison Bonnie Dundee arranged by Burleigh Deep River GOVERNOR DUMMER ACADEMY GLEE CLUB arranged by Roberton A Celtic Lullaby Rich American Lullaby Treharne Corals Johnson Up! Up! Ye Dames (Two-part Canon) BANCROFT SCHOOL GLEE CLUB Praetorius Adoramus Te Candish Song of the Jolly Roger GOVERNOR DUMMER ACADEMY GLEE CLUB Two Choruses from the Gilbert and Sullivan Operas Henceforth, Strephon—from "Iolanthe" Finale from "The Gondoliers" COMBINED CHORUS NATIONAL MUSIC WEEK PROGRAM CLASS VII Old Hebrew Melody The Feast of Lights Old Greek Folk Song The Lute-player and the Dancing Lass CLASSES VII AND VIII Palestrina Gloria Patri—(sung antiphonally) Schumann The Two Grenadiers Italian Folk Song Tarantella Two Original Compositions—for Piano Prelude The Ocean Voyage Eliot Macy of Class VIII CLASS VI Ceremony -Pipe Indian Peace Traditional (Melody) Texas Cowboy's Stampede Song Traditional (Melody) I'm a Texan Negro Spiritual De Gospel Train Negro Road Plantation de of Song Middle Keep in the

Joseph, Sylvia Spence

CHRISTMAS PAGEANT from a painting by Jean Fouquet Mary, Sylvia Collins

AS YOU LIKE IT CELIA, Ruth Windle; OLIVER, Janet Heywood; ROSALIND, Mary Annis Haskell; ORLANDO, Sylvia Spence; TOUCHSTONE, Sue Mirick.

OUR BEGINNINGS From left to right: W,1LLIAM BREWSTER, Brooks Wood; JONATHAN BREWSTER, Brayton Lincoln; FEAR, Anne Marie Washburn; KATRUCA, Anne Hoagland; PATIENCE, Janet Bliss; MISTRESS BREWSTER, Martha Walker.

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DRAMATIC CLUB President Sylvia Spence, '35 Treasurer Dorothy Dean, '36 Secretary Frances Dresser, '37 Faculty Advisor Miss Rose Dresser October 19 Prize speaking, medals awarded by Dramatic Club November 28 "Our Beginnings"—Class 6 December 20 Christmas Pageant January 28 Egyptian play—Class 7 March 16 "As You Like It," by William Shakespeare. Dramatic Club directed by Miss Dresser 7 "Lohengrin"—Class 5 April 28 "Wappin' Wharf," by Charles S. Brooks—Upper I April 8 Attendance of Dramatic Club of Holy Cross production of May "Cyrano de Bergerac" 13 Sioux Indian puppet show and dances—Class 3 May 20 "Pan and Syrinx" and "Orpheus and Eurydice"—Class 4 May 5 Dramatic Club Banquet June 6 "The Song of Roland," Commencement Play—Classes June VII and VIII costumes and scenery through the co-operation of Mme. Gifts: additional Robinson, Mr. Keck and Mr. Demoorjian

Cast of "As You Like It" Orlando Adam Oliver Charles Celia Rosalind Touchstone Le Beau Frederick Corin Sylvius The Banished Duke Amiens Jaques Audrey Phoebe Jaques de Bois Attendants Foresters

Sylvia Spence Carol Churchman Janet Heywood Elizabeth Young Ruth Windle Mary Annis Haskell Susannah Mirick Dorothy Dean Mary Lee Sparrow Barbara Emmons Helen Hunter Frances Hill Jane Baker Barbara Macfarland Margery Ann Williams Mary Elizabeth Robinson Becky Bursley Hutchins 1 Virginia MacFarland Penelope Allen Barbara Bigelow Martha Esty

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LOHENGRIN King Henry—Harry Dewey Frederick—David Adams Lohengrin—Philip Alton Ortrud—Martha Gottfried—Peter Morgan Elsa—Barbara Jordan Ladies-in-waiting—Judy Wise, Priscilla Daniels, Virginia Cobb Herald, Lloyd Byrd PAN AND SYRINX Pan—Allan Kennedy

Syrinx—Kitty Sigourney Shepherd—David Sykes Nymphs—Betty Bowker, Betty Jepson, Dabney Morgan, Betty Perkins ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

Orpheus—Bruce Daniels Phoebus—George Knowlton Pluto—Lincoln Kinnicutt Story Teller—Betty Bowker

Eurydice—Betty Jepson Hymen—Lincoln Kinnicutt Persephone—Dabney Morgan Slave—Peter Hoagland

Girls' Athletics CAPTAINS Blues: Frances Hill, '35 Grays: Ruth Windle, '36 Basketball Captain: Barbara Macfarland, '35 Class Basketball Managers: Barbara Macfarland, '35 Barbara Gummere,'36

Barbara Heywood,'37 Elizabeth Young, '38

Hockey, Bancroft 0—Faculty 5 Basketball, Bancroft 31—Lincoln 21 Basketball, Bancroft 18—Faculty 30 Basketball, Bancroft 26—Faculty 52 Skating Carnival, February 7 Gymnasium Meet, April 4 Play Day with Lincoln and House in the Pines, May 11 Riding Meet, May 24 Track Meet, May 28

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Eighth Grade Prophecy SCENE: a graveyard many years in the future. Caroline Washburn of high esteem, One of the famous members of the skeleton team. Faded away to one small pound And thus her audience never failed to astound. But sadly enough, her efforts to gain Were vain And one day She faded completely away. Beneath this stone lies Joan Oak She scarcely laughed at any joke. Prim author of "Proper Manners" With which she won many literature banners, She died sedately in her bed. Her poise never left her, 'tis said. Here lies Drennan Lowell with face so solemn, Tired and worn from writing a gossip column. Libby Brown would never waver: With a shotgun and cannon she led a drive opposing all child labor (in school) Till she felt the fine sensation Of being a second Carrie Nation. Here I lie Where many pass by. In my day Many romantic novel prizes came my way, The Cosmopolitan's circulation increased Before my husband and I became deceased. Mary Spaulding. 1921-1975. Nancy Gould with all her efficiency Managed to keep her husband's accounts with never a deficiency Unlike the old woman who lived in a shoe With her children she always knew what to do. The German Huey Long was he. He ousted Hitler from Germany. He put the pink shirts in his stead But finally died of too much cheese and crackers Eaten in bed. George Gould.

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A sturdy corpse buried below, Pamela Mitchell weathers rain and snow. As she was on earth a leader supreme Her grave is looked on with reverence and esteem. The Nobel prize she twice did win For writing books on "Roman Sin." Noah Webster he was known as—: His revised Webster's dictionary almost everyone has. He passed away ('twas called absurd) When scratching his head to think of a new word. Eliot Macy. 1920-1980. Here lie the bones of Mary Daniels And her favorite cocker spaniels. Don't be surprised at the size of the plot; Her favorites were many and she weighed a lot. To be a surgeon Edith did long But in this she was gravely wrong. She knew not a thing of hatchet and knife And cared not a bit for a person's life. When her first patient died Edith was tried; So here she lies. Phyllis made a telephone call one day To the President in Washington far away. To impress this honored man She made her details beyond demand. She talked all night, She talked all day, Till she starved her poor self away. Dorothy Dewey tried many a trade But not in any did she make the grade. She endeavored very hard to become a nurse But all her patients ended in the hearse. At last she gave up her futile search And died peacefully as preacher in a church.

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Dave Hoffman wanted to be a bum And he got pretty far with a turn of his thumb. With a large wad of paper wedged firmly in mouth He boarded a freighter for points further south, Where he took out a patent and set up a store— And the natives today don't chew gum any more. She could have been a veterinary, everybody felt, Or followed in the hasty steps of Mrs. Roosevelt. But though she rushed from Singapore to Tokyo to Rome Betsy Stinson never called the White House her own home. But in circles diplomatic Her charm was so emphatic, Her humor and intelligence so keen, That they shipped her to Liberia Where the natives had hysteria, Killed their president and promptly made her queen. Under these trees lies Connie Barth Who for fame spurned home and hearth. Her wishes were so many, her ambitions so tall That she never could decide among them all, And gave up earthly glory in despair To die a pitiable figure worn with care. Under the spreading chestnut tree Lies the plump Ann Michie. She always had a heaped plate; In fact her food came by the crate. Alas! one day too much she ate. Poor Ann was found dead on her plate! Over this grave where many birds hover Lies Barbara Perkins, the Kleenex lover. She stole millions of boxes when she was alone, Drew designs on the paper and called it her own. Smart little creature she did this often And died content in a Kleenex coffin.

GRADE VIII Top Row: Drennan Lowell, George Gould, Joan Oak, Eliot Macy, David Hoffman. Middle Row: Phyllis Massey, Caroling Washburn, Constance Barth, Barbara Perkins, Pamela Mitchell, Dorothy Dewey, Edith Kinnicutt. Front Row: Elizabeth Brown, Mary Elizabeth Stinson, Anne Michie, Mary Spaulding, Mary Daniels, Nancy Gould.

THE SONG OF ROLAND CHARLES—Betsy

Kinnicutt OLIVER—Elizabeth Brown ROLAND—Edith

Stinson Mitchell

GANELON—Pamela

Perkins, Nancy Gould, Constance Barth, Mary Daniels, Phyllis Massey, Anne Michie, Dcrothy Dewey, Mary Spaulding, Jean Tibbetts, Elizabeth Alton, Martha Adams, Carol Gaskill, Sally Daniels, Lidorra Gould.

FRANKS—Barbara

Gould BLANCANDRIN—Eliot Macy

MARSILA—Drennan Lowell AELROTH—David Hoffman

CALIPH—George

Hoagland, Teddy Blake, Louis des Cognets, Davenport Bowker, Francis Hart, Robert Carr, Pliny Allen, Caroline Washburn.

MOORS—Mahlon

Stage Manager—Phyllis' Massey Scenery—Dorothy Dewey and Mary Daniels Costumes—Anne Michie

Armor—George Gould

Properties—Nancy Gould

BOYS' BASEBALL TEAM Left to right: Brooks Wood, Eliot Macy, Louis des Cognets, Drennan Lowell, Teddy Blake, Francis Hart, David Hoffman, George Gould, Pliny Allen, (Captain), Mahlon Hoagland, Robert Carr.

Boys' Athletics FOOTBALL Captain, Teddy Blake Eliot Macy—R.T. Brooks Wood—L.E. David Hoffman—R.E. George Gould—L.T. Davenport Bowker—Q.B. Francis Hart—L.G. Teddy Blake—L.H. Drennan Lowell—C. Mahlon Hoagland—R.H. Pliny Allen—R.G. Frank Adams—F.B. Robert Carr—R.G. Bancroft 6—Rectory 0 Bancroft 13—Fay 20 Bancroft 20—Fay 0 BASKETBALL Captain, George Gould Teddy Blake—L.G. Gould—R.F. George Mahlon Hoagland—R.G. Bowker—L.F. Davenport Lowell Substitutes—Drennan Hart—C. Francis Paul Morgan Bancroft 18—Fay 30 Bancroft 32—Fay 40

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The Runaway IT WAS on a clear moonlight night in the fall of the year 1928, that a -a* dark figure might have been seen sliding down a drainpipe from a second story window of a pretentious brick house. When the figure reached the ground it stopped, picked up a leather handbag and after glancing fearfully around it disappeared into an alley. The figure was that of a boy of about fifteen with light brown curly hair, mischievous brown eyes and a somber mouth which made a startling contrast to his turned up nose. His name was Marcius Wheaton, but he was generally called Marc. He was dressed in a new grey suit and a heavy buckskin jacket. His hands were bare and cold. Marc's heart was throbbing wildly as he made his way fearfully through the dark alley towards the water front. He was free at last! Bound for the winds and the seas. Nothing could stop him now. He tingled with excitement and broke into a run. When he approached the docks he stopped and rested. How lonesome everything seemed with the still dark hulks silhouetted against the frosty sky! How very different in the night than in the day! But enough musing, he was here for a purpose. He fumbled around in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and a matchbox. He lit a match and unfolded the paper. It was a list of all the ships at the docks and all about them and their captains. He ran his finger down the list and then stopped and read "'Monarch of the Seas'; Captain Doyle, dock 11. Tramp steamer carrying flour and grain. Sailing full tide, October 1." He seemed satisfied as he picked up his bag and made his way to dock 11. When he arrived he stopped and gazed at the ship. She had a good hull, but needed painting. In spite of that everything seemed neat about her. Mustering up all his courage he walked up the gangway. The watch hailed him, "Halt! Who are you?" An old seadog in a slicker came striding towards him with a lantern. He looked more amiable when he saw Marcius and queried, "And what might you be wantin' this time o' night, lad?" "Well, s-sir, er," he stammered, "I—I—may I see the captain, sir?" "Well, well, now. Don't you know the cap'n is usually caulking at this time? What might you be wantin' of him, lad?" "I'm sorry he's asleep, sir. I guess I didn't think of that, but I--I want a job." Seeing the old man's wizened eyes open wider he pleaded with him. "I'll do anything. I've never been to sea before but I've learned quite a bit about it from hanging around the wharves here, and I'm willing to learn as best I can. Won't you take me?" "Hmm,laddie, you're kinda young, ain't you?" "I'm fifteen and almost sixteen, sir, and I know all the ropes, sir, and a little navigation. I c'n cook, too."

Ilr

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"Well, come up and sit anyhow. I'll ask the old man at eight bells. Just make yourself right at home and tell me about you. What makes you think you want to go to sea and what you doin' comin' at this time?" As Marc saw no way out of it he decided to tell his new acquaintance everything. "Well, my name is Marcius, sir, Marcius Wheaton, Junior, but most folks call me Marc as Marcius is rather long. I, well you see, Mister, I've always wanted to be a sailor and my father, he wouldn't let me. My mother's dead and my father's kind of rich and he doesn't believe in my going to sea—thinks I'm too good for it and when I asked him he wouldn't let me go. So I ran away. Before I left I got a friend of mine who works down here at the docks to look up the ships and give me a list of them and of their captains. Here it is. After I had the list I decided I'd like to join this ship, sir. So I packed my bag and here I am." His friend lit his pipe and puffed meditatively at it for a while. Then he said,"When I was a lad I done the same thing. I run away and joined a ship, a sailin' ship it was then, an' I shipped as cook on her. Now, I've never been sorry I did, but I dunno as I'd recommend you doin' it. You look too kinda educated and too well dressed for the sea." Just then eight bells struck and he stretched and got up. "Well, anyhow, I'll take you to the cap'n, now. Come along, Marc. (That's what I'm agoin' to call you from here on ef you don't mind.) Come on." He led him to the captain's cabin. After knocking, they walked in and he presented Marc to a clean shaven, white-haired man of about fifty. Marc liked him immediately. His fine, kind, blue eyes met Marc's and twinkled. He was dressed in a spotless dark blue uniform with brass buttons. Everything about the ship was as immaculate as he was. Marcius told his story and the captain listened with an amused expression on his bronzed face. He was, Marc decided, exceedingly handsome. When Marc had finished Captain Doyle declared, "Well, boy, all right. You'll ship as my private attendant. You'll wait on table, run errands, help with all work and do just about any kind of thing. You'll get eighteen dollars a month, at first, but if you are worthy of it and improve in your work you'll get a raise. Not unless! How does that suit you?" "Fine, sir. Thank you." "Good, it's a bargain, boy. Now go to your bunk and stow away that dunnage there," he said pointing to Marc's bag. "You'll bunk on the half deck with the rest of the crew. I have two apprentices not much older than yourself. You'll be glad to find someone your own age, no doubt. Now leave and see that you get some work clothes from the mate." After thanking him, Marc took his leave. So began his very happy life on the sea. As the months passed the simple outdoor life and the good, plain food toughened him. Soon, to his great delight, his gait began to roll like that of the other sailors. He was very

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fond of the apprentices and they liked him, too. The oldest of the two was named Ted Lantin, called Jack o' Lantin' by the men. He was two years older than Marc and had gone to sea three years before. The younger was just a month older than Marc and made a good companion. The only shadow over Marc's happiness was the ever returning thought that he had done wrong. He had run away. The thought of his father's deep trust in him and the knowledge that he had broken that trust was not a pleasant one. He knew from times past just how angry his father could get and therefore he dreaded his return although it was three months off. He tried manfully to fight it off but it bothered him a good deal. He confided in the apprentices but got little comfort from them. On Christmas day while Marc was waiting on the cabin table, a ship was sighted. "The Monarch of the Seas" ("Monarch" for short) drew close to it and as the sea was calm that day a dory was sent to visit and exchange newspapers and books with the other ship. She was a tramp like the "Monarch" and was named "The Red Gull." To his delight Marc was allowed to go although the apprentices were not. His pay had been doubled for efficiency and he had planned to buy some presents for the other two boys from the "Red Gull." Marc was able to secure some of the latest newspapers and he also purchased a deck of cards and a game of checkers for his presents. When he returned to his own ship he started to read one of the papers, but the headline was enough. There in great black letters staring him in the face was "MARCIUS WHEATON, SENIOR, TO LEAVE COUNTRY FOR FRANCE IN ORDER TO FORGET Loss OF ONLY SON." And there was his father's picture and a whole front page about it. It struck Marc like a bomb. He suddenly hated himself and he made a resolution that the first thing he would tell his dad when he saw him was that he was sorry. He would ask his pardon and hope for the best. He would take what was coming to him. He thought of his Dad's face when he did not return and of the warm fireside and his dog "Beetle." Marc wondered if his father would take the dog along to France, too. He hoped so. He also planned to save all his money for a passage to France as he would need it all. He fought back tears and shook himself. He planned to think it all over when he turned in. But that night a storm blew up. The wind howled and the seas grew mountainous. Then a dense fog set in. The decks were all awash and everything possible was lashed. The mighty seas swept over the ship which tossed about like a chip of wood. It was so dark he could barely see his hand before his face. Three men were at the wheel. The captain never left the bridge, his handsome brows knit. The wind howled, the seas roared in defiance and the rain beat against him, but he remained oblivious to it.

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The fog horn was going full blast but was lost in the fury of the storm. The crew worked like dogs. The third mate was washed overboard and the chief steward broke a leg; yet the work went on, hour after hour. The day dawned and the storm was ever increasing. Even the oldest salts had never seen the like. Suddenly a horrible blast of another fog horn sounded almost on top of the little tramp. Off the port bow an ocean liner forged slowly ahead, the dense fog hiding the "Monarch" from it. The "Monarch's" foghorn screamed a warning but it was too late. A horrible scrunching noise followed and pandemonium broke loose. The collision sirens on both boats shrieked warnings and were quickly followed by a call to abandon the "Monarch" for she had been smashed into head on. The water was slowly seeping in and gurgling around in the hold. At the time of the accident Marc had been helping at the wheel. The shock had sent him reeling on to the deck and a heavy sea washed him into the scuppers, but he recovered himself and made his way rather shakily to the bridge. The storm was lessening a little now but had by no means ceased. When Marc reached the Captain, orders had already been given to lower the boats. Marc, himself, helped the injured cook into the last lifeboat. Entirely oblivious to the fact that it was the last and that everyone but the captain had left the ship, he went to the bridge. The last SOS signals had been sent to the nearest coast guard station. Some of the "Monarch's" crew had jumped and were struggling in the sea but others had gone in the lifeboats. The captain was amazed to see Marc. "What! Haven't you left? Didn't you know the last boat left about five minutes ago? Good Lord! Well, Marc, we'll have to jump together. Jump far out and when you come to the surface swim hard away from the ship so that the suction when she goes down won't draw you with it. Ready? Now jump! Good luck!" As Marc's feet left the deck in that terrible moment and he went hurtling through space, he wondered if he'd ever see his father again. Marc's lips moved in a final prayer and he struck the water feet first. After what seemed years he came to the surface near the captain. Together, side by side, they fought their way from the powerful suction. Suddenly the "Monarch" gave a lurch and her proud bow disappeared beneath the sea. The stern rose up in the air, hung there for a minute and then that went, too. Marc could not see the liner through the fog but he hoped a lifeboat would reach them soon. Other people were being picked up but the waves hid the captain and him from view. There was nothing to do but wait as it would have been useless to yell that distance above the storm. He swam to keep warm as long as he could and then hung limply in his lifebelt. The cold water numbed him and dulled his senses. He was conscious of objects floating past him; some were people and others were just bodies which had once been his shipmates. He shuddered. Then a life-

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boat which had been overturned floated within his reach. He grasped it and with a supreme effort he helped the captain onto it. Another person grasped the boat; he hardly noticed it. Then very faintly he heard someone calling his name. He lifted his head, and opposite him, clinging to the keel, was Ted! "Ted!" he gasped. "Gosh! Oh Ted!" but Ted was pointing to a lifeboat which was slowly approaching them through the fog. Someone had seen them at last! Ted's weak smile was the last thing he saw at all clearly. He vaguely remembered being somehow pulled from the water and then he lost consiousness. When he came to his senses twenty-four hours later in the clean, white bed of the sick ward on the liner, an anxious looking man followed by a dog was coming towards him. He was with Captain Doyle. The captain was saying to the man,"Well, Mr. Wheaton, maybe you'll allow your son to be a sailor after all." His Dad nodded thoughtfully. Marc swallowed hard and stared. Their eyes met for an instant. Then Father and son both grinned and "Beetle" lovingly licked him. PAMELA MITCHELL, VIII

Pat's Medal

pAT wasn't very tall; in fact he was short.

He had a nice face when he got a chance to shave. There was something about him that we liked. -IL We never could figure out how he got in with us Yanks. Nobody knew his full name except the enlisting officer and nobody cared about finding out. He had quite a temper at times but usually was meek. He didn't mind "minnies" or shells at all but disliked our company. He especially disliked Captain Gordon, the "old man." The "old man" continually rubbed it in about Pat's Irish ancestors. The "old man" was a big, sour, old fellow who for some reason picked on Pat every chance he had. Nobody seemed to like Gordon much. Well, one rotten night the "old man" was leading us on a charge. We were preceded by gas. Pretty soon we got into a heavy firing zone and was it thick out there? We lost a good many men that night. The "old man" gave the order to retreat, but few heard him for we were already on our way back. We lost no time in scrambling back through the mud to the trenches. The "old man" and Pat along with some others hadn't arrived yet. Most of us had seen what happened to the others, but none had seen Pat or the the captain. We almost hoped the "old man" wouldn't show up, but anxiously awaited Pat. At about midnight the watch saw by the flare from the starshells a figure resembling Pat with a bundle of some sort. The figure was stumbling over uneven ground and crawling at times.

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A couple of us lost our heads and ran out to Pat's assistance. Realizing our danger we dragged back the now unconscious Pat and the still body of the "old man" of all people. Pat was pretty tired and was plugged in the leg, with shrapnel we later learned. The captain's head was injured by shrapnel also which had crashed through his supposed shrapnel-proof helmet. Both were sent to a first aid base and later returned, the captain looking chummier and Pat with a shiny medal. Their injuries healed perfectly and they became great friends. Pat loved to tell us what happened that night and before we got home we knew it by heart. He always ended his tale by proudly touching the medal on his chest and saying, "and that's how I won this medal." DAVID HOFFMAN, VIII

Hard Luck QNAP I went my forestay just at the beginning. My friend and I were "having a sailboat race with another friend from across the lake on the windiest day of sailing I ever attempted to be out in. "Hold on, Joe" (that was the name of our opponent) I yelled, "my stay's busted." Joe maneuvered around until we fixed our stay, but finally it was ready. "All ready?" says Joe. "All ready," says I. We both got off for a ripping good start. We were ten feet apart and just about even. I gripped the sheet and tiller with all my might hoping to win. The course was triangular and about two miles long. We were to make the course twice. When we rounded the first buoy we would be going before the wind so I let go all my sails which consisted of a mainsail and a large beach umbrella as a spinnaker. At once I began winning and got down to the next buoy about three lengths ahead, but as his ship was better going to the windward he gained two lengths. We kept this position until the next-to-last lap and then the rope that held the spinnaker broke and blew into the water. I cussed and gritted my teeth as I jumped into the water after it and saw the other boat shoot ahead. Because we were going before the wind I tied him down to the fifth buoy. I jibbed around ahead of him, but he was gaining. In order to go to windward you have to zig-zag. I was going zig and he was going zag and we both came to a point where we would collide. Fortunately I had the right of way so he had to turn off for me to pass. The results made me a length ahead and about a half a leg of a lap to go. He kept gaining and I kept cussing but the finish line was too near and we zipped across the line a length ahead and won the race! ELIOT MACY, VIII

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The Mascot

"I'm sorry, Dexter, but this is no place for a dog. Why man, this is a secret airdome near the enemy lines! Oh, I know that he is your mascot and you've never flown without him which, by the way, is breaking regulations, but this is a dangerous mission. Everybody's safety in this district depends on it. Your job is to get the pictures so the bombers will know where to get to work and you can't do it with a dog to hinder you. As I said before, the DeHaviland is being warmed up and Rogers here will do the photographing. That's all and the best of luck," and the major walked briskly away. "Best of luck. Bah! We'll probably be shot down without Rags with us," said the lanky pilot dismally. "I know, Julian, but here's the ship, let's get going. Oh! Wait a minute, I forgot something," said Rogers. He ran to the sleeping quarters of the pilots and soon returned and got in the plane. As Julian started the motor a figure appeared around the tail of the plane and gave something to Rogers. Julian gave the ship the gun and with a roar of the motor they were off. In appearance the two men were opposite. Julian Dexter, the pilot, was slim and lanky. His wind-burned face and straggly hair appearing below his helmet told of many flights. His face was good humored and careless. John Roger's short legs supported a very heavy body with wide shoulders. He had a determined face and as is the case of most photographers he loved his camera more than anything else. They were now over the enemy territory and Julian flew at a level of three thousand feet. Rogers ground busily with his camera and soon they were heading homeward with the precious pictures. "That was easy," shouted Rogers above the sound of the motor, "not a Hun in sight." "We're not over yet," shouted back Julian and as if in answer, the motor suddenly stopped. "The gas tank leaked! We'll have to go down," yelled Julian, and putting words into action he put the ship into a dive. "The stick's stuck. We're going to crash!" and Julian covered his face with his arms and braced himself against the cock-pit. The plane hit the ground with a crash and was completely wrecked. Julian felt an agonizing pain in his right leg. He crawled from beneath the wreckage and looked for Rogers. He pulled himself painfully to where the other lay and found him unconscious. Then remembering his duty, he looked for the pictures. He finally found them intact even though the camera was totally destroyed. "What a mess," he grumbled. "Here I am laid up, Rogers unconscious,

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and nobody to get these pictures back." As he was talking, a small form emerged from the wreckage and ran toward him. Hearing the slight sound Julian turned around. "Rags! Well. I'll be—where did you come from? I see. Rogers, the clever rascal, brought you along. It's a wonder you weren't killed, but what difference does it make. The Germans will come and capture us and you'll be killed anyway." Suddenly his eyes fell on the pictures and his face lighted up. He moved toward the plane and found a small box. Putting the pictures in the box with a note he called Rags to him. The Scottie came and he tied the box on his tiny back. "It's up to you, Rags, old boy. Take this back to the airport. Home, boy! Home," and he pushed the dog. "We're only four miles from there. I can see the weather pocket. That's it, boy, home!" The dog whined a little and then started on his journey. Back at the airport the major was examining the planes when a black form shot onto the field barking wildly. He grabbed the dog intending to have him sent away when he noticed the box. He took the note and called an attendant to take the pictures. The note read, "Come quickly. We're four miles east of the airport. Plane crashed. Germans marching about three miles away. Rogers hurt." "Sargent, get a car and two attendants. Dexter crashed. Hurry man. Time is precious," yelled the major. Far in the lead of the car ran Rags bringing help to his beloved master. Three weeks later the major came to the field hospital where Julian and Rogers were getting slowly better. As he entered the tent Rags jumped off the cot but the major put him on again. "Well, Dexter. I don't know what we would have done without those pictures. The bombers did an excellent job and cleared the whole district. What I came to say was that Rags is now the official mascot of the whole squadron. We couldn't do without him." A week later the whole squadron stood at attention while the medal for heroism was pinned on Rag's collar. BETSY STINSON; VIII

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Goblins On the moon there is a gloom, But on the earth there is mirth; In the night to our delight Goblins dance, gaily prance. Lightly, brightly, sprightly See them hop, swiftly stop; Peering, fearing, hearing, Peeking out, round about. Mortals here they greatly fear, Rhymes for sure they can't endure; On toeless feet they make retreat, And skip away at break of day. ELIZABETH ALTON, VII

The Diary of Francis Billington Let us enter the home of Francis Billington to find him seated at the kitchen table writing his very hated Diary for November 15, 1625. This is what he says: "Cloudy and cold. I am so glad the tiresome Sabbath Day is over. I was all right this morning except that there was a new boy who sat right next to me who wiggled an awful lot. Once he stepped on my toe but I got him back with a punch on the arm. He cried out and the tithing man gave him a rap on the head. He kept still after that. After the long morning sermon was over we had a cold lunch of bread and cheese and then went back for another never ending sermon in the afternoon. When the afternoon sermon was about half through I got so bored I just had to do something so I took out my slingshot and hit the boy in front of me. The tithing man must have seen me because he came over and hit me terribly hard. I don't see why they have to have a two hour sermon in the morning and an hour and a half in the afternoon beside the two half hour prayers. My new sling shot I made is working fine. I am going to take it to the Dame's school tomorrow. I hope I can get the boy who stepped on my toe in church today without the Dame seeing me. KATHRYN DOWLEY, VI

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The Cricket I am a merry little cricket, I'm just as black as ink. I have six legs and two antennae, And other funny kinks. When I am singing my songs to you, I rub my wings together. This is what I seem to say, "How are you this pleasant weather?" MARTHA L. WALKER, VI

A Day in a Hermit Crab's Life It was a bright summer day when a crab with a snail shell on him could be seen racing down the beach. It was a very tiny crab, really one of the lobster family. As he went on, he seemed to be looking for something. "Oh dear," cried Mr. Hermit Crab (for that was who he was), "I do wish I could find a house to fit me, with nobody in it. I do so hate to fight. I'm tired of not having a nice, hard shell of my own. It's such a bother to have to look for a new snail shell every time I grow even a tiny bit." As he spoke, he came on a shell that looked as if it would fit him. But as he looked at the opening of this shell, he saw that another crab was in it, for his claws were drawn across the hole to form a door. "What luck! And that shell looks just my size. Well, I've got to get this one for it's no fun to go house-hunting, so I might as well start fighting." As he had no intention of looking farther, he tried to pull this crab out. It was a hard fight, but at last its owner came out, and as quick as a flash Mr. Hermit had popped himself into this shell. To his delight it was just the right size. Mr. Hermit just thought it wonderful not to have to hunt further for a house, and soon was fast asleep. Meanwhile, the other crab had no protection, so he backed into Hermit's old shell, and in turn, he too went house-hunting. Hermit spent about all of that day house-hunting, but he had to eat. He caught small insects and bugs that came his way. Except for house-hunting, I think Hermit leads a happy life. MARY LEE BARNARD, VI

The Cricket The cricket chirps when fall is here, He seems so bright and full of cheer. When winter comes he steals away, And won't come back for many a day. JANET BLISS, VI

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The Clock Tells His Adventures First I must tell you something about myself. I am now a clock nicely polished and shined but over a million years ago I was a tree growing on the earth. As people look at me they see that my color is mostly yellow and red. Once I heard a lady say,"Did you paint the clock such beautiful colors?" She would not have said that if she knew my life before I was a clock. When my first day in this world came I was a young tree. A few years later I remember a terrible shaking came over everything. Trees fell and I was toppled over onto a large tree. Later boiling water poured over me. Many thousands of years I lay upon the big tree. The water got inside of me and stayed there so long that I became perfectly hard. You could still see the bark on us but it was stone, not wood. After more thousands of years there was great confusion. I was dragged off the old tree and fell apart. Then I was loaded into a truck and driven away to a factory where they shaped and shined me into a clock. I was sold to a woman by a jeweler and put to stand on a mantle piece. During that long time I had changed my color because the minerals in the water had made me a lovely red and yellow. I have stood here for over five years and often wonder if the old tree I lay on so long is a clock too. DORCAS GUEST, VI

A Windy Night The wind went roaring by one night, and it was a knight clad in gray armor. The clouds were the armor and the stars peeking through were the shine on the gallant knight's shield. His steed was the wind that went whirling by. He galloped and galloped and shook my window as if he wanted to break it with his clashing gleaming sword. When I woke up in the morning the snow was all whirled about, and in one bare tree was a squirrel shivering with fright from the cold sharp wind of the night before. BARBARA JORDAN, V

A Tree at Night It was a dark night. The tree stood like a lonely person with its branches stretched out toward the moon. There was a robin's nest in her hair with a lot of little birds cuddled close to their mother's wing. The tree was keeping guard over the nest. The stars were looking down at the tree with lonely eyes. Her blossoms were just coming out for the springtime. She looked like a statue all pink and white in her new dress. PRISCILLA DANIELS, V

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Early Morning in the Woods The faint moon is slowly fading away, when, with a slap of their tails, the beaver family goes in the house for the day. The sun is coming steadily over the crest of the hill. The trees seem to wake up and stretch their branches to welcome the sun's morning rays. The beavers have been working all night and are glad to see the rising sun for it means a whole day of peaceful rest to them. Even the little brooks seem to run faster with the first of dawn. They gurgle and bubble over the rough stone with the sun's rays sparkling on their surface. The birds are fluttering about and calling to each other. They too are glad to see the faint glimmering of dawn. A fox on his way to his burrow, smacking his lips and licking his chops, is on his way back from a feast of farmer's chicken and meadow mice. He is satisfied with the coming day, for he has been out all night and has a good dinner tucked away in his stomach and is glad to reach his burrow and rest till the next night. MARTHA LOWELL, V

My Bad Dog One day I was skating and playing hockey with the other boys. Suddenly the window opened and mother called me to come in and wash the dishes. Then I took off my skates and went in. I put on an apron that mother gave me. While I was watching the boys out of the window, our dog, named Danny, jumped up on a stool and began to lick the dishes that I had just washed. I had almost finished and now I had to wash them all over again. LINCOLN KINNICUTT, IV

My Christmas Rocking Horse One Christmas morning I got a wonderful rocking horse. That morning I went out of the room to get something and when I came back I heard a sort of creaking noise. I peeked into the room and saw Grandpa rocking back and forth. He was so large he looked very funny. He said, "Get on and have a ride." So I got on and we started and was I scared all the time! I felt as if I were going to fall. I was on the tail of the horse and the horse was going like mad. That was the beginning of my Christmas. KATHERINE SIGOURNEY, IV

A Disagreeable Day Red woke up with a sinking feeling. Aunt Abigail and Uncle Henry were coming to visit. He had to play the piano for his younger sister Jane who was going to sing to them. How he hated to play especially with Jane singing. At last the time came, and when it was over Aunt Abigail said, "How cute and how sweet," but somehow he didn't feel cute or sweet at all, and when finally he was allowed to go out and play ball how much better he felt. BETTY BOWKER, IV

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Not So Good One day I was playing with my doll when I should have been out of doors. When I put my doll to bed I went to mother's room and climbed up on a chair. I looked into mother's drawer and I found just what I was looking for. Lipstick! Lipstick! I had never had it on before. There was a book of movie actresses on the table. I decided to make up like one. I put the lipstick on very dark, and then put on some rouge and powder. Then I went into mother's room. When she saw me she said, "What have you been doing?" She gave me a spanking and I had bread and milk for supper. I guess I will never do that again. BETTY PERKINS, IV

A Discontented Puppy There's nothing for a Scotch Terrier to do indoors. Master just sits there smoking his pipe and looking out of the window. It's snowing so hard out doors. I wish I could go out and romp and play with the other dogs. It's so tiresome in here. But master says it's too stormy out. It's so much fun romping about in the snow. DAVID SYKES, IV

A Myth to Explain the Snow Once upon a time there lived a musician who thought himself the best man in the world. He had a book about magic. One day when he was out walking all of a sudden he wanted it to snow and so he read the directions— "Stand with arms up—count ten—put them down—it is snowing!" He boasted and a soldier came along and said the king wished it to be nice. He tried and it did not work. So the king was angry and had the man beheaded and to this day we still have snow. ROBERT MENARD, III

The Turtle and the Snake One day a turtle was chasing a snake. At last the turtle caught the very tip of the snake in his teeth. The snake pulled one way, and the turtle pulled the other way until the snake slipped out of his skin and into the hushes. The turtle was left with an empty skin for his supper. CARLETON PIERPONT, III

My Dog I have a little dog. His name is Bones. He is very little, he is about a foot. He is black, his mother is a poodle and his father is a cocker spaniel. It is a mixer isn't it? ELIZABETH DES COGNETS, III

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A Waterbarge When the Pilgrims were in Holland they had a waterbarge come down the river to fill their water jugs every day. When Holland scrubs, Holland scrubs. PEGGY GLIDDEN, II

Pat and the Fairy Queen Once upon a time there lived a dog named Pat. She was a very good dog. She would not bite. One day when she was walking through the woods she saw a fairy queen with her best kitten. The fairy queen went up to Pat. Then the fairy queen said to Pat, "Will you give me something to eat?" Of course the fairy queen had plenty to eat, but the fairy queen wanted to know how kind the dog was. So Pat went home, and in a minute the dog was back with some meat. The fairy queen took the meat and gave Pat a wish. I don't know what the wish was but Pat knows. ELIZABETH COE, II Once when I was outdoors I saw a little bird. I said, "Here, birdy, birdy, here's some bread for you." The birdy came hop, hop, hop, to me. Then I fed him the bread. Pretty soon the bread was all gone. Then he flew away. Then I made a snowman. He was just as big as I was. He had button eyes and a button nose. He had a hat on, too. My feet were getting cold so I went in. DOROTHY ALTON, II

A Christmas Story One Christmas eve tiny mouse sat by the door of his little home. His little home was a hole in the wall by the chimney. As tiny mouse sat there he said, "I will watch the stockings for soon old Santa will come down the chimney." So he crept out of his hole and sat down near the chimney to watch the stocking. Just then he heard a noise. MARGARET BERRY, II Long ago they used to think that elves and brownies and pookas came out. They really didn't though. It was a funny thing to think, wasn't it? FRANK NAUGHTON, II

A Valentine Story Once upon a time there was a little boy. He liked to make valentines. He made 100 valentines. He made 400 valentines. He made so many valentines that he could not get out of the room. One of the valentines thought he was the best valentine. So he began to walk away. And he said goodbye to the little boy. And then they all went. And then there was a whole army of valentines. JANE POMEROY, II

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Calendar September October October October October October October November November November November November November November November December December December December January January January January February February February February February February March March March March March March April April April April April April April May May May May May June June

18 Opening of school 19 Tea, prize speaking and exhibition of summer work 22 Movies, Ellis K. Heath 25 Football game, Bancroft 6, Rectory 0 26 Hallowe'en party for lower and middle schools 29 Rev. Dr. Perry, Benjamin Franklin 31 Football game, Fay 29, Bancroft 13 5 Harold H. Wade, Amateur Poetry 9 Hockey game, Faculty 5, Varsity 0 12 Musical program by lower school 14 Football game, Bancroft 20, Fay 0 19 Hampton singers 26 Current Events program by contemporary history class 28 Our Beginnings, Thanksgiving play by sixth grade 29-December 2 Thanksgiving recess 3 R. W. Beach, Evolution of Type 8 Blue Moon Fair 20 Christmas pageant 21-January 7 Christmas recess 7 Moving pictures 14 Moving pictures 21 Moving pictures 28 Egyptian play by seventh grade 4 Vincent Morgan, Music Work at the Art Museum 8 Skating Carnival 11 Miss Helen B. Clark, Current Events 18 Latin play 22-24 Winter Sports weekend at Northfield 27 Basketball game, Faculty 30, Varsity 18 2 Basketball game, Bancroft 31, Lincoln 21 4 French program 6 Basketball game, Fay 40, Bancroft 30 13 Roland H. Cobb, Wyonegonic and Winona Camps 16 Dramatic Club play, As You Like It 22-April 2 Spring recess 4 Gym meet 7 Lohengrin, presented by fifth grade 15 Mrs. Sidney Webb, A Trip Across the United States 22 Wapping Wharf, by Charles S. Brooks, presented by freshmen 27 Joint Glee Club concert with Governor Dummer Academy 29 Health Week program 30 George Updyke, Art as applied to Personal Appearance 4 Play day with Lincoln and House-In-The-Pines 11 Joint Glee Club concert with Worcester Academy 18 School dance 24 Riding meet 27 Track meet 6 Award day 7 Commencement

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June Awards, 1934 SCHOLARSHIP HONORS Awarded the T. Hovey Gage Medal Margery Ann Williams, Classes VII and VIII Mary Ellen Mowbray, highest rank in the Upper School Alliance Francaise Awards in French For best student in Junior Class—Ticket to Alliance Francaise Mary Ellen Mowbray For best student in Senior Class—Diploma—Edith Blakeslee ATHLETIC HONORS LOWER AND MIDDLE SCHOOL GIRLS

Spirit Cup

Posture Cup Classes III and IV Betty Jepson (2nd yr. to keep) Barbara Jordan Martha Lowell Classes V and VI Anne Marie Washburn Martha Walker Classes VII and VIII Margery Ann Williams Mary Daniels B.S.—for athletic ability, cooperation, and attendance Classes III and IV Elizabeth Bowker, Barbara Jordan, Martha Lowell, Dabney Morgan Classes V and VI Janet Bliss, Sally Daniels, Carol Gaskill, Lidorra Gould, Patricia Lenihan, Carol Sigourney, Martha Walker, Anne Marie Washburn Classes VII and VIII Penelope Allen, Joan Ashey, Marietta Billingslea, Ann Cook, Mary Daniels, Martha Esty, Dorothy Evans, Nancy Gould, Nancy Hutchins, Edith Kinnicutt, Ann Michie, Pamela Mitchell, Suzanne Sigourney, Margery Ann Williams, Elizabeth Young Medals Tumbling: Elizabeth Young Track: Irene McLaurin Baseball: Penelope Allen

Tennis: Suzanne Sigourney Hockey: Martha Esty Dancing: Dorothy Evans

LOWER AND MIDDLE SCHOOL BOYS

Trophies Best Gymnast: Lower School, Paul Morgan; Middle School, George Gould Football: Lower School, Hamilton B. Wood, Jr.; Middle School, Frank Adams Baseball: Lower School, Paul Morgan; Middle School, Charles Blake

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Tennis Winner: Charles Blake; Runner-up, Ronald Davis Athletic Improvement: George Gould Best Athlete: Frank Adams Swimming: First, Pliny Allen; Second, Eliot Macy Football Letters: Frank Adams, Pliny Allen, Forbes Bigelow, Charles Blake, Davenport Bowker, Winthrop Carr, Ronald Davis, David Dean, George Gould, Francis Hart, David Hoffman, Drennan Lowell, Eliot Macy Baseball Letters: Frank Adams, Pliny Allen, David Hoffman, Charles Blake, Davenport Bowker, Winthrop Carr, Louis des Cognets, Paul Morgan, George Gould, Francis Hart UPPER SCHOOL

Medals Skiing: Elizabeth Branch Dancing: June Spencer Basketball: Edith Blakeslee Tennis: Edith Blakeslee Track: Ruth Windle Archery: Catherine Forbes Baseball: Barbara Gummere Hockey: Sylvia Spence Fancy Skating: Mary Lee Sparrow Spirit Cup: Edith Blakeslee (to keep) Athletic Cup: Catherine Forbes Posture Cup: Deborah Lowell Jackson Cup: the Blues "B" for athletic ability, cooperation, and attendance Elba Armstrong, Mary Atwood, Edith Blakeslee, Nancy Brown, Catherine Forbes, Barbara Heywood, Mary Louise Higgins, Dean Hoffman, Jean Kendall, Deborah Lowell, Susannah Mirick, Mary Lee Sparrow, Sylvia Spence CITIZENSHIP HONORS MIDDLE SCHOOL HONOR GROUP

Boys: Forbes Bigelow, George Gould, Drennan Lowell, Eliot Macy Girls: Faith Baker, Anne Bigelow, Ann Cook, Barbara Emmons, Martha Esty, Dorothy Evans, Nancy Hutchins, Suzanne Sigourney, Margery Ann Williams, Elizabeth Young UPPER SCHOOL HONOR GROUP

Elba Armstrong, Mary Atwood, Edith Blakeslee, Elizabeth Branch, Nancy Brown, Catherine Forbes, Dean Hoffman, Marion Kinney, Deborah Lowell, Susannah Midrick, Mary Ellen Mowbray, Mary Randolph, Sylvia Spence

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School Register FACULTY NAME

WORCESTER ADDRESS

Louise Bender Eleanor Blair Homer D. Carr Helen Clark Florence Cobb Roland H. Cobb Stephen Demoorjian Philip E. Dodge Nancy Dorr Rose Dresser Helen P. Estee Hope Fisher Dorothy E. Fowler Constance Gardner

69 West Street 34 Fruit Street 5 Fenimore Road 21 Fruit Street 42 Harvard Street 1 Marston Way 377 Main Street Hubbardston, Mass. So. Lancaster, Mass. 49 Elm St. 97 Elm Street Princeton, Mass. 50 Beeching Street 45 Cedar Street

Margery Heinzon Maude Hyde Edith J. Jones William G. Keck

150 Woodland Street 19 Sever Street 18 Somerset Street Temple Street, Boylston, Mass. 9 Cedar Street 1 Dayton Street 1 Marston Way 40 William Street 770 Franklin Street 1 Marston Way 45 Cedar Street 1 Dayton Street 17 Beaconsfield Road 35 Woodland Street 45 Cedar Street 11 Coventry Road 36 Pleasant Street 21 Fruit Street 21 Dayton Street 13 Merrick Street

Joan Kinsley Carrie Knowles Anne Lacey Helen P. Lewis Emily B. W. Manchester Anna Mattison Dorothy T. Merrill Minnie Paige Charlotte Post Helen Rockwell Barbara Smith Eunice Smith Dr. Charles Sparrow Frances 0. Weeks John Williams Florence Woodis

HOME ADDRESS

108 South Lake Avenue, Albany, N. Y. Montour Falls, N. Y. 5 Fenimore Road 21 Fruit Street 42 Harvard Street 1 Marston Way 377 Main Street Hubbardston, Mass. South Lancaster, Mass. 49 Elm Street 97 Elm Street 402 Mt. Vernon Avenue, Marion, Ohio 50 Beeching Street 2538 Kemper Road, Shaker Heights, Cleveland, Ohio 166 Neshobe Road, Waban, Mass. 25 Prospect Street, Somersworth, N. H. 18 Somerset Street Temple Street, Boylston, Mass. 9 Cedar Street 1 Dayton Street 32 Jason Street, Arlington, Mass. Newark, N. J. 770 Franklin Street 880 West Ferry Street, Buffalo, N. Y. c/o Mrs. A. H. Coons, Middle Hope, N. Y. 1 Dayton Street 17 Beaconsfield Road 35 Woodland Street 6 Clifton Road, Wellesley Hills, Mass. 11 Coventry Road 36 Pleasant Street 21 Fruit Street 21 Dayton Street 13 Merrick Street

UPPER SCHOOL NAME

Penelope Allen Joan Ashey Jane Baker Anne Bigelow Barbara Bigelow Gertrude R. Blood Becky Bursley Nancy Campbell

ADDRESS

6 Lincoln Street, Spencer, Mass. 14 Whitman Road 12526 Cedar Road, Cleveland Heights, Ohio South Quinsigamond Avenue, Shrewsbury, Mass. South Lancaster, Mass. 284 Pilgrim Road, Birmingham, Michigan 2107 Hill Street, Ann Arbor, Michigan 38 Forest Street

BLUE NAME

Carol Churchman Sylvia Collins Ann Cook Anne Day Dorothy Dean Frances Dresser Barbara Emmons Louise Erskine Martha Esty Elizabeth Forbes Barbara Goodwin Barbara Gummere Mary Annis Haskell Barbara Heywood Janet Heywood Merle Higgins Frances Hill Dean Hoffman Helen Hunter Nancy Hutchins Margaret Long Barbara Macfarland Virginia MacFarland Priscilla Martin Ruth Mayan Irene McLaurin Suzannah Mirick Mary Ellen Mowbray Janet Pierpont Mary Elisabeth Robinson Suzanne Sigourney Mary Lee Sparrow Sylvia Spence Margery Ann Williams Ruth Windle Doreen Wise Elizabeth Young

MOON ADDRESS

20 Institute Road 16260 So. Park Blvd., Shaker Heights, Cleveland, 0. 989 Main Street, Leicester, Mass. Philippine Refining Co., Manila, P. I. 30 Sever Street 49 Elm Street 24 Otsego Road 5 Trowbridge Road 85 Elm Street 81 William Street 5 Brighton Road 24 Rittenhouse Road 1150 Main Street, Leicester, Mass. 8 Wheeler Avenue 8 Wheeler Avenue 41 Davidson Road Shrewsbury, Mass. 48 Massachusetts Avenue 171 Woodland Street 10 Regent Street 26 Beechmont Street 5 Germain Street 182 Milbrook Street Grafton, Mass. Oxford, Mass. Brookfield, Mass. 7 Oberlin Street 374 East Shore Road, Culver, Indiana 85 William Street 340 Wimbleton Drive, Birmingham, Michigan Boylston Place, Princeton, Mass. 73 Sagamore Road 53 Kenwood Avenue 56 William Street 119 Elm Street, Millbury, Mass. 79 Elm Street 221 Bumcoat Street MIDDLE SCHOOL

NAME

Frank Adams Martha Adams Pliny Allen Elizabeth Alton Constance Barth Teddy Blake Davenport Bowker Elizabeth Brown Robert Carr Louis des Cognets Mary Daniels Sally Daniels

ADDRESS

159 Quinapoxet Lane 159 Quinapoxet Lane 6 Lincoln Street, Spencer, Mass. 340 May Street 137 Newton Avenue 12 Military Road 46 Fruit Street 346 Salisbury Street 5 Fenimore Road 299 Salisbury Street 575 Salisbury Street 575 Salisbury Street

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82 NAME

Dorothy Dewey Carol Gaskill George Gould Lidorra Gould Nancy Gould Francis Hart Mahlon Hoagland David Hoffman Edith Kinnicutt Drennan Lowell Eliot Macy Phyllis Massey Anne Michie Pamela Mitchell Joan Oak Barbara Perkins Mary Spaulding Betsy Stinson Jean Tibbetts Caroline Washburn

MOON ADDRESS

54 William Street 30 Fruit Street Phillips Road, Holden, Mass. Phillips Road, Holden, Mass. Phillips Road, Holden, Mass. 16 Creswell Road 150 Woodland Street 48 Massachusetts Avenue 72 Cedar Street 4 Burgess Road 31 May Street 6 Westwood Drive 10 Military Road 48 Cedar Street 119 South Street, Northampton, Mass. RFD No. 3, Athol, Mass. 34 Kenwood Avenue 110 Flagg Street 34 Monadnock Road 42 Elm Street LOWER SCHOOL

NAME

David Adams Dorothy Alton Philip Alton Mary Lee Barnard Elizabeth Barton Margaret Berry Joan Bigelow Kathleen Blair Anne Bliss Janet Bliss Christine Bosshard Elizabeth Bowker Dana Bullen Lloyd Byrd Edward Clary Philip Cobb Virginia Cobb Elizabeth Coe Janet Coe Louisa Coe Richard Coe William Coe Elizabeth des Cognets Bruce Daniels Priscilla Daniels Phoebe Ann Davis Harry Dewey Kathryn Dowley

ADDRESS

159 Quinapoxet Lane 340 May Street 340 May Street 357 Burncoat Street 65 Elm Street 40 Westwood Drive South Lancaster, Mass. 120 Amherst Street 14 Trowbridge Road 14 Trowbridge Road 22 Baker Street 46 Fruit Street 39 Forest Street 17 Beeching Street 23 Dayton Street 1 Marston Way 1 Marston Way 11 Germain Street 11 Germain Street 23 Westwood Drive 11 Germain Street 11 Germain Street 299 Salisbury Street 2 Regent Street 9 Metcalf Street 8 Hancock Hill Drive 54 William Street 42 Kenwood Avenue

BLUE NAME

George Duffey Craig Emmons Christopher Erskine Linwood Erskine Margaret Glidden Ann Guest Dorcas Guest Phyllis Goddard Frank Harrington Richard Harrington Suzanne Hart Philip Heald David Hedberg Stephen Hedberg Deborah Heywood Hester Hickel Richard Higgins Anne Hoagland Joan Hoagland Peter Hoagland Tevis Huber Louise Jenkins Betty Jeppson Charles Johnson Edwin Jordan Barbara Jordan Allan Kennedy Owen Kennedy Richard Kennedy Lincoln Kinnicutt Frank Knowlton George Knowlton Patricia Lennihan Richard Lennihan Brayton Lincoln Martha Lowell Lemuel Manchester Rosemary Marble Anny McLaurin Robert Menard Mary Lou Molder Dabney Morgan Frances Morgan Joan Morgan Paul Morgan Peter Morgan Frank Naughton Elizabeth Perkins Franklin Perkins Carleton Pierpont Jane Pomeroy

MOON ADDRESS

72 Flagg Street 24 Otsego Road 5 Trowbridge Road 5 Trowbridge Road Worcester County Sanitorium 103 Merrick Street, Princeton, Mass. 103 Merrick Street, Princeton, Mass. 90 Commodore Road 122 Coolidge Road 10 Ripley Street 16 Creswell Road 45 Flagg Street 5 Burgess Road 5 Burgess Road 70 Elm Street 25 Brownell Street 41 Davidson Road 150 Woodland Street 150 Woodland Street 150 Woodland Street 161 Institute Road 1 Dix Street 1 Drury Lane 28 South Lenox Street 20 Loudon Street 20 Loudon Street Boylston, Mass. Boylston, Mass. 87 William Street 72 Cedar Street 23 Waconah Road 303 Salisbury Street Southbridge, Mass. Southbridge, Mass. 39 Cedar Street 4 Burgess Road 770 Franklin Street 26 Longfellow Road Brookfield, Mass. 57 Howland Terrace 12 Hancock Hill Drive 295 Salisbury Street 295 Salisbury Street 67 West Street 9 Burgess Road 9 Burgess Road 983 Pleasant Street Lancaster, Mass. Lancaster, Mass. 85 William Street 16 Military Road

BLUE NAME

Seward Pomeroy Caroline Preston Robert Preston Shirley Reed Joanne Sibley Edith Sherer Carolyn Sigourney Katherine Sigouniey Marguerite Skinner David Sykes Nancy Sykes Betsy Taylor Frederick Taylor Pamela Taylor Peter Taylor David Walker Martha Walker Anne Marie Washburn Charles Washburn Jean Wellington Nancy Willard Roger Willard Judy Wise Brooks Wood Norman Wood

MOON ADDRESS

16 Military Road 13 Ashland Street 13 Ashland Street Cross Street, Boylston. Mass. 21 Creswell Road 62 Elm Street Boylston Place, Princeton, Mass. Boylston Place, Princeton, Mass. 79 West Street 27 Berwick Street 27 Berwick Street 112 Russell Street 112 Russell Street 17 Harvard Street 112 Russell Street 469 Hamilton Street, Southbridge, Mass. 469 Hamilton Street, Southbridge, Mass. 42 Elm Street 42 Elm Street 49 Beechmont Street 20 Nottingham Road 20 Nottingham Road 79 Elm Street 68 Beechmont Street 68 Beechmont Street