M.M.S. Magazine - Summer 1957

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MMS Magazine 1957
Mirfield Modern School Magazine

Volume II - Summer 1957

Magazine Staff IV I

General Editor: Mr. W. H. HINKINS.

Editor: D. Wild, 4S

Sub Editors:
D. R. Walker, Pauline Davy, Davina Burrell, Raymond Lodge.

Sales: Rodney Smith.

Treasurer: Mavis Goodall.

Members of Form IV (Industrial Section).

Every publication of this kind has an editorial and we can be pleased that we are allowed to be "ourselves" in our own magazine, for in the great world outside the Press is often just a medium for getting some sort of policy over, political or otherwise.

The bulk of our contributions are from you form members, with an occasional article or quip from a teacher to entertain or instruct. We have tried particularly to bring in a reference to almost everyone.

It can be very enlightening to, as Robbie Burns says, "see ourselves as others see us." If you have contributed you will have the thrill of seeing your words in print—pure magic! Well, here's to good reading, all of you.


All schooling is to some extent an act of faith. In the particular circumstances of this school we believe we have an opportunity to establish for ourselves a position and reputation quite different from, but not one bit worse than that of the Grammar Schools. We are making a deliberate attempt to get our children a reputation for initiative, sense of responsibility, good manners, and the ability to do a job well because they have taken the trouble to understand that it is really worth doing; all this in addition to a high standard of work in ordinary classroom subjects. To put into practice in school such an emphasis is a long struggle and we have not achieved it yet—hence our act of faith.  As part of this policy the work in school is done on a communal basis, and this magazine is an example. We thank Fourth Industrial for their efforts; we hope they have gained in understanding and experience, and we are sure that we shall gain in enjoyment as we read this magazine which I warmly commend to you.



The robin high up in its nest,
Tries to do its very best,
To cheer us on a wintry day,
By singing songs so bright and gay.

When we're glum he seems to say,
"Come on! Cheer up! Sing all day,"
Or when we're tired and stay in bed,
He'll say, " Get up you sleepy head."

The other birds they go away,
To warmer climes and there they stay,
What we'd do I'd hate to say,
If our dear robin went away.


(The Editor has received this interesting letter from a Mirfield reader.
Truth is often stranger than fiction.)

4, Kitson Hill Crescent,
May 27th.
Dear Editor,

I have an interesting story for your magazine. It happened in Mirfield and is of a MURDER house near my home.
One day two gypsies called at a house and asked for food, but the lady of the house refused. The two gypsies then killed the people in the house. The murderers were tracked down and one was hanged and the other transported to Australia. These are the words on the tombstone in the Baptist Churchyard:—

"This monument was erected by subscription to express the deep sympathy entertained by the public for the sufferers and their abhorrence of the atrocious deed." Reader—Boast not thyself of tomorrow, for thou knowest not what the day may bring forth.

On the other side of the stone it says:— "In memory of Caroline Ellis, aged 21 years, daughter of George and Jemima Ellis of this parish who with James Wraith Gent and Ann, his wife, her Master and Mistress, comprising a whole Family, were most barbarously murdered at midday on the 12th of May, A.D. 1847, at Water-Royd House situated 127 yards from this place."

Yours truly,


Arm holes are too small for sleeves.
Buttonholes always fray.
Cotton gets into knots.
Darts poke.
Elastic gives way.
French seams grow fringes.
Gathers hang in bunches.
Hooks be sewn down firmly at the bend.
Invisible hemming can be seen.
Joinings don't meet and
Knitting gets itself into a muddle.
Loops pull off.
Machines won't sew,
Needles disappear.
Openings gape, and
Patterns need adjusting.
Queues are formed by helpless people.
Rayon can't stand a hot iron.
Seams need neatening, and
Thimbles get in the way,
Untidy people lose their pieces.
V-shaped notches must be marked.
Water splashes out of the iron.
X-way pieces need careful cutting.
Yokes smaller than the rest of garment.
Zips will show.


There were three more crusades, each of which came after the one before.



The ship sailed on steadily through the night. The sky was clear and there was a light cool breeze. The moon was up and it cast its shimmering light on the water. At the wheel was the captain humming softly to himself. Then he stopped abruptly as he felt the breeze quicken, he frowned to himself as he looked up at the sky.

A cloud was scurrying over the face of the moon stopping for a moment its rays of light. The captain did not like it. The breeze turned into a strong wind and the clouds came rolling up. The sky became overcast, then the wind died down again. There was a deathly hush, all that could be heard was the creaking of timber as the ship rolled slightly in the swell. There was not a breath of wind and the ship lay still. The atmosphere was close and stuffy and the hush lasted about ten minutes.

Then the storm broke. The rain came lashing down in hissing torrents. The lightning flashed across the sky and the thunder crashed out in deafening peals. The wind came as though the fury itself had been unleashed.
“Call out the hands," yelled the captain to the bosun. He put the pipe to his lips and sounded a shill blast throughout the ship. A minute later the hands came tumbling onto the deck. Every man on board came up including the cook. Jim stood behind the wheel-house to shelter from the rain and waves.

The wind came now with increased fury, lashing the sea into mountainous waves. The lightning flashed again and by its light Jim could see rocks to starboard. The ship was drifting towards the rocks but Captain Hicks saw the danger.
“Get aloft, you lubbers," he roared, against the gale. “Furl the sails."

As the men scrambled aloft a gigantic wave towered above the ship. It hung for a moment, then descended. Such was its force that it took the foremast with it. The mast crashed down and was swept overboard taking with it five men. The ship was tossed about like a cork, wave after wave smashed into it. The lightning flashed again and Jim saw once more the rocks. They looked dark and rugged and forbidding.

"Drop anchor," bellowed the captain, whose voice carried even above the roar of the waves and wind. A wave that must have been a hundred feet high then crashed onto the ship. The main mast snapped off as though it had been a matchstick and was swept over­board. Suddenly there was a terrific jolt.

“The cable has snapped," came the first mate's voice above the roaring winds. Another flash of lightning showed again the jagged fangs of the rocks which were very close.
“The starboard boats have gone," came a voice through the roar of the gale. Jim looked overboard and saw the boats being thrown about in the boiling sea. Then one hit a submerged rock and split into matchwood. The other anchor was dropped. It checked the ship and held it for a moment then it began to drag. The ship drifted closer and closer to the rocks.

Another wave crashed into the ship. It caught Jim and hurled him against the wheelhouse knocking all the wind out of him. Then the last cable snapped and the ship was hurled nearer and nearer the rocks. Then it struck. Jim was flung overboard into the raging sea. His head struck a rock and he knew no more. He was swept through a gap in the rocks into a lagoon. In the lagoon the sea was calm and Jim floated towards the beach. He drifted across the lagoon and was washed up on the beach. He opened his eyes and seeing he was on dry land struggled to his feet. The effort was too much and he fell flat on his face in the sand and lay prostrate.




On Tuesday, April 2nd, Joan Hardy and I went to visit “Rushworths," in Huddersfield. We arrived at Rushworths at 2-45 p.m. We were told by post to go to the enquiry office. We waited in the enquiry office a few minutes then Mrs. Cooper took us to her office where we asked her a few questions.

The firm was established in 1920 and this is the only one of its kind. They employ 120 people most of whom are married. The employees work from 8-45 a.m. to 5-30 p.m. When they first come to the shop they can do any job they want provided that job is vacant. When the clothes get out of date they reduce the price and sell them in a sale. We were informed that it pays to have a sale,

When they have a sale they employ extra staff. They have one man who dresses the windows and we were also informed that a window is being dressed every day except Saturdays. Mrs. Cooper told us that the best selling colour is blue and the best selling season is between September and Christmas. In all they have 25 departments.


"FIGURE" by Brian Marsh
Illustration by Brian Marsh



In Finland the weekly bath (or “sauna") is a very serious business. The whole family assembles naked in a special little shed, where a fierce brazier is alight, with a bucket full of stones above it. The mother throws buckets of water on to the now red-hot stones, and the family wilt in the steam, sweating their dirt right out from deep within the skin. Then the mother thrashes the dirt out of their bodies with a bunch of fresh birch-twigs. Finally they all rush out together and, in summer jump into the nearest lake, or in winter roll in the snow.

Full of curiosity I submitted myself to a public sauna in Helsinki. A real Amazon of a woman took me firmly in her charge; she bade me take off all my clothes, and marched me into a tiny room. I gasped at the heat, for there were the brazier and the stones nearly white-hot. I lay faintly on a bench, expecting the worst. She quickly tipped two buckets of water on to the stones. With a sizzling roar the water all turned to steam, and the room was darkened by scorching clouds that licked all around my helpless body. I lay there for what seemed an eternity, sweat pouring off my body like rivers of water. The venomous clouds of steam choked my lungs, seared my eyes, and brought up my skin like that of a boiled lobster. But I was helpless, too shocked by the heat, and too limp to lift a finger.

Suddenly my fierce woman returned and said heartily (as I thought): “Have you had enough? "

"Yes, yes!” I replied, eagerly.

Instead she had really asked me: "Do you want some more”

On my reply she quickly threw a third bucket of water on the stones and vanished again, leaving me in an even worse plight than I was in before, and wondering whether I could possibly survive. I felt weak and faint and longed for anything to happen to release me from this crippling, clammy heat.

Anything, that is, except for what really did happen. My Amazon friend reappeared, a sinister smile flickering around her lips; her sleeves were rolled up, and the muscles of her mighty arms rippled powerfully as she had a few practice swishes with the deadly instrument she bore in her hand: it was a strong sprig of fresh birch twigs, straight off the tree—leaves and all. In a flash she had set about with all the strength in her body, as if she meant to knock the life out of me—and she nearly did!—chest, tummy, legs—even the soles of the feet for good measure. Then one unceremoniously rolled me over and set about my back with equal vigour. I wallowed in a sea of red-hot pain, and the little room was filled with my howls. These only excited my tormentor to fresh efforts, and the ghastly massacre went on. By the end I hardly knew or cared what was happening.

Suddenly she stopped her beating, stood me up and rushed me out of that room to a hot shower, under which she scrubbed my tender, swollen skin with a long-handled brush and a big bar of soap; from there to an icy-cold shower for several minutes. Finally she wrapped me in a huge hot bath-towel and dried me all over. What supreme bliss after all that torture!

Feebly I dressed and staggered away. I was certainly clean and it was fun—to look back on! I suppose the Finns like their baths that way.