Gardiner Area High School - Quill Yearbook (Gardiner, ME)

 - Class of 1938

Page 14 of 102

 

Gardiner Area High School - Quill Yearbook (Gardiner, ME) online yearbook collection, 1938 Edition, Page 14 of 102
Page 14 of 102



Gardiner Area High School - Quill Yearbook (Gardiner, ME) online yearbook collection, 1938 Edition, Page 13
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Page 14 text:

IZ THE QUILL females, and females have better table manners than males. -Lawrence Caney, '38 CAN YOU IMAGINE? The dictionary says, "To imagine is to form a mental picture of." I really hate to think of all the time I've wasted dreaming of that trip or of that good-looking college boy, or of that old-fashioned house at Christmas. So many times I've conceived myself in that grey three-piece suit or in that navy-blue box-shouldered cape with that red plaid skirt. Sometimes I pinch my- self and awake with a start to realize I'm not that celebrated author, but only Louise Quinn of Gardiner, Maine, supposedly studying in a school-room. But how I pity those who cannot imagine themselves far away doing adventurous things, meeting exciting people. For what fun when I let my mind wander or become one of those Hollywood celebrities buying 589.50 dresses, hobnobbing with stars, chatting with Nelson Eddy and Michael Whalen or, especially in the fall and spring, traveling to the far corners of the earth. Yet though I may imagine it now, it can come true if one tries enough, for it is not only luck that makes people what they are, but also ambition, and I earnestly desire to live up to my motto by Arthur Bagley, who said in an assembly last year: "There's the novel to be written, the song to be sung, the picture to be painted. You'll do it!" -Louise Quinn, '38 WORRY When I was too young to know better, I learned to read, and sometimes I think the whole thing was a mistake. Of course, if I could just read something and forget it, it probably wouldn't bother me at all, I'd never know the difference. But I don't seem to do that. I get to worrying. A good book acts as a powerful drug on some people. I read somewhere about a man ugulping down the strong headlines of the morning paper like so much black coffee," and although I "gulp" and am "drugged" for the time being, reading seems only to stimulate worry in me. I worry for the characters while I'm read- ing a story. When I've finished, I worry about what happened to them after we fthe author and D left them. I worry about books I have read, about books I haven't read. I worry about the books I ought to read and those I ought not. Worry-I have written that word eight times now. What is worry? Imagination provokes a little gray, misty figure, with bright beady eyes on the look-out for some- thing to disturb, scuttling through the cor- ridors of my mind, trundling around cor- ners, bumping unexpectedly into things and upsetting the little orderly piles of my thoughts. Rather absurd, isn't it? But this is only my own private worry. Perhaps someone else's is just as silly. But no matter what differences our indi- vidual "worries" may possess they all have one thing in common: they dominate us. Try as we will to shut them up in some dark corner, they're always popping out and romping about, sometimes only for a short time, sometimes for days at a stretch. And it isn't only reading that excites them-

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THE QUILL ll QUILL STAFF



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THE QUILL 13 they need but the slightest excuse, anything will do. Why do we let this imp get the best of us? Already, going around a corner Cin my mindj I bump into "Worry" who asks in an exasperating voice Ctry as I may to "shush" himjz "Is this theme as good as you thought when you started to write it? Is the subject 'chosen appropriate for a theme? Is it better than your last?" I'm defiantly writing my last lines just to show him, but I know that little haunting whisper I'll be hearing until I get my paper back. I haven't yet conquered him. -Ann Pomerleau, '38 IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE white road stretched ahead through the brown fields like a strip of sur- geon's tape across Nature's surprised face. highway sped one lone car. The long Along this john Davis, its driver, was not reckless, but he could not be blamed for speeding a little, for he had the road to himself. It was a cool, sunny day in October. The distant forests were turning all shades, as if many colors had been stirred into a blend- ing, harmonious whole. Everything fore- told a peaceful, uneventful drive. The last rays of the sun were still tinting the leaves when a large, red-lettered sign loomed up ahead of the speeding car. Davis saw that the red letters spelled SToP just in time to bring the car to a screeching halt beside the sign. He jumped from the car, looked about for some obstruction, then he looked at the sign. It read, "SToP falling hair with Dr. Simonson's I-lair Tonic." After glancing about to see if anyone had observed him making a fool of himself, he got back into the car and drove off, with only loath- ing for Dr. Simonson and his hair tonic. Two hours later, however, he had for- gotten all about that sign. Suddenly the white cones of his headlights showed the word HWARNING.,, Again Davis brought the car to an abrupt stop. A few seconds after- ward, he drove away with a clashing of gears, feeling exasperated with sign-boards in general. That one.had read, UWARNINGI Winter is coming. Fill up with Non-Freeze and be safe." He surely wouldn't be taken in like that again! That is why an hour later he didn't stop when he saw a sign reading, "Danger!" He thought, "Hmph! Danger from falling hair or frozen radiators?" and kept speeding along. Then there was a great splash. If john Davis had stopped to read that sign, he would have read, UDANGER! Bridge Out! Use Detourf' -Perley Leighton, '39 A SHORT STCRY I walked up the rickety stairs, my heart in my mouth, and knocked at the door. No- body answered, so I walked in. Nobody was there, and I sat down. Then a mysteri- ous knocking started. I thought somebody was at the door, but I noticed that it was just my knees banging together. I heard a funny ticking, and after a while I realized that it was only my brain starting to work. just then somebody stuck a gun in the door and shot at my heart, but since my heart was in my mouth, the bullet did little dam- age. He shot again, but because I was so frightened, I jumped right out of my skin, and so the second bullet didn't hurt. He then stepped in the door and said, "I'm going to skin you alive." But since I had already jumped out of my skin, I just handed it to him and told him not to go to all the bother. At this time I recognized him. Don't ask what happened next because I dropped dead. -Arthur Lasselle, '39

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