Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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16 THE GOLDEN-ROD thirty, they tipped all the bell-hops, paid their bill, and hit the trail for home. The fates smiled on them on the return trip and, in two hops, they reached the starting point, none the worse for wear. Although sleep and the comforts of home were conspicuous by their absence, the expedition was unanimously declared a success by all concerned. THE SPARKS Marjorie Mitchell, February, 1933 Embers in the tire’s heat; Ashes all surround them; Logs are added to the coals; New life starts around them. From the embers fly the sparks, Singing, dancing, see them run! Here's a large one, there’s a small, Laughing, prancing, having fun. Here's a leader and his men Marching out to battle: Here's a farmer and his sheep; There's a flock of cattle. Here's a dancer, twinkling toes; There's a staid school-master; L'p the chimney do they fly Faster, faster, fast r. Tho’ the sparks have passed away. Yet the fire is not dead: For now we see. against the smoke. The coals, still glowing red. THE FOG Marjorie Mitchell. February, 1933 Sinking slowly from the sky. It spreads on boatman’s sail, Settling softly on the sea Like a misty veil. Here the veil is liftin ' fast. Moving from the sand: See the sun shine forth once more. Brightening the land. MY FIRST SWEETHEART Helen Sweetser, June, 1930 One day as I sat on my grandfather’s knee listening to one of his many stories, he noticed that I was not giving him my usual, rapt attention. ‘‘What is the matter with my little girl?” he asked. “Nothing, grandpa,” I answered. “Yes, there is. Now don’t try to fool an old fool, because you can’t. Come now, what is it?” W ell,” I said, gazing at the buttons on his coat, “I wish I had a sweetheart like Barbara’s, one who would send me flowers and candy.” About a week later came Valentine’s Day bringing Barbara a lovely bouquet of violets. Of course, I admired them tre- mendously, wishing all the time that I had been the fortunate one. I was so absorbed in thinking about myself and wishing that I was eighteen instead of eight, that I sat in the living room fully five minutes before I noticed a large, red, heart-shaped box cn the table. W hen I saw it, I rushed to the table and found on a card—“To my sweetheart, Helen, from one who loves her.” How thrilled I was! I took the box and hurried to Barbara. I was so excited that I nearly spilled the contents on the floor while showing it to her. “Isn’t it lovely, Barbara?” I gasped, watching her intently to see if she thought so. “Who do you think sent it?” “Yes, dear, it is lovely. I haven’t the faintest idea who sent it, but who ever did surely had good taste.” “Many times after that I was the happy receiver of gifts. But best of all was at Easter, for on that day I received a beautiful bouquet of sweet-peas, which I wore to church, as I knew Barbara would wear flowers also. For two years I was never forgotten when it came to flowers and candy on such special occasions but then — I was forgotten — Grandfather died, you see.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 15 plates are cleared away, an’ all your chores arc done? It’s then I seems to see my faults and wish that I had followed the “Golden Rule” and minded my mom ’n’ pop. And do ya know, I even wisht I hadn’t stolen the apples from outer Deacon Crabtree’s orchard on that night so long ago, though he was so downright mean. Ef I had been settin’ in the candle light all the time, I'd never have sassed my mom V pop or left my chores undone. Bet I’d have been the model that they were al- ways talkin’ about. Ef I had been as good as that, mom would think I’d ketched somethin,’ an’ gimme a dose o’ sulphur an’ put me to bed. Jest the same, I like to be a-settin’ in the candle light a-watchin’ the shaders play round the kitchen an’ makin’ a hale aro n’ Grandma’s silv’ry hair. WHY BOYS LEAVE HOME Robert Owens, February, 1931 On the first warm, sunny day of the year the natural tendency of youths with nothing to do and all day to do it in is to go somewhere beyond their usual haunts. Accordingly, three of the repre- sentatives of the rising generation adorn- ing the doorway of the Quincy Y.M.C.A., decided to solicit rides, as the Master of Youthful Destinies at Quincy High calls the well-known practice of “bumming” rides. The first car carried the three to Weymouth, where they were picked up by a constable from Cape Cod, homeward bound after carrying a prisoner from his native heath to the Charlestown Prison, and who was therefore not particular as to whom he rode with. Learning that their host was going all the way to Hyannis, the travelers decided that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to spend the night at the Quincy “Y” camp in Sandwich. They stopped at the village of Sand- wich to buy food out of their combined finances, which amounted to a dollar and sixty-two cents. The camp was found after tramping seven miles over muddy roads through now pitch-dark woods. The wayfarers decided not to go right in, however, since there were three dogs in front, apparently very large and fierce, and all protesting loudly and determin- edly at the approach of strangers. The boys stopped, but the dogs didn’t, so the former went hastily up the nearest tree, supplies and all. After a time, some un- known personage called off the reception committee, and the uninvited guests clambered down the tree and through an unlocked window of the deserted house. There is something about a very dark, large, empty and unknown place that off- sets the usual nonchalance of anyone who enters it with only matches for light. Thus it was very close together that the three prowled around the whole house, explor- ing every nook and corner for things that might come in handy during the coming long night. Among the things found were lamps, firewood, old mattresses and a blanket, dishes, baseball bats, a hunting knife and an axe: the last three objects were to be used in case the place was stormed in the middle of the night by bandits, bootleg- gers, cutthroats, or demons. After the whole place had been looked over, our heroes prepared and ate their supper, which consisted of beans, bread, pineapple, and oranges. The night, one of the longest nights on record, was spent in lying, but not sleep- ing, on mattresses spread out in front of the fireplace, with one small blanket, a burlap curtain, and one another for cover- ings. In the middle of the night the fire went out so the three, all being wide-awake and cold, got up, built a new fire, and played football. While the fire was still burning brightly, they sought the covers again and remained under them until morning. The wanderers rose at the crack of dawn and ate the remaining food, after which they cleaned up the place where they had slept and eaten. About seven-

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 17 CAPTAIN NORTON’S AUTOMOBILE Hollis Burton Engley, June, 1930 Note:—The steering gear of a sailing vessel is so arranged that when the wheel is turned in one direction the vessel moves in the other. (Apologies to the true characters.) Some years ago on Martha’s Isle, when auto cars were few, Old Captain Norton had a car rigged up in manner new. Since he had not quite yet got used to driving on the shore, The steering gear embarrassed him yet ever more and more. “By Godfrey’s Mighty!” swore old Jed, one sunny day in June, I'll have the wheel fixed on this craft by Sat’d’y afternoon! When I steer port the consarn tub (unlike my boat May Psasr). To starboard shifts and leaves me sittin’ shakin’ in the breeze.” So on that morn, the fault repaired, the Captain sallied forth. The skies were blue, the waters, too, south, east, and west, and north. From Tisbury to Middletown, from there to Ed- gar town, In blissful peace he travelled ’round, up island and then down. “Ho. ho!” laughed Jed, in spirits high, “at last this craft does steer As sensible as my own sloop I sailed for many a year. No longer on the village roads must I so fearfully creep, When port 1 steer, to port I go, as I did on the deep.” One night some low off-Islander who wished to sec the land Without expense to his own self, Jed’s car did take in hand. Before his house the auto stood, all quietly it started. Down Beach Street rolled the stolen car; past houses dark it darted. W hen half-way down the low incline the engine started running. At Water Street it had perked up and splendidly was humming. Here was the wheel turned to the right—toward Eastville it was steering; The car, of course, up Water Street toward Union went careering. The thief was quite hard put to it to understand its action, But Union Street was reached—in time, a second and a fraction. So up this street he quickly turned, and down it went like sin! Right to the wharf where lights still shone, the ticket-house within. The squealing brakes brought out to view the con- stable and, too. The wharfinger, who knew right well the car of shining blue. So ofT was marched the rueful thief, who better could have done Than old Jed’s car with steering odd, to steal and try to run!