Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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NOTHING TO DO HAT do you do when “there’s nothing to do” ? Some people prefer ill spend their spare time at the theatre, or in other forms of passive amusement. Others go much higher in search of diver- sion, penetrating the fields of science in their dabblings with chemistry, astronomy, radio, taxidermy, and similar hobbies. It is not uncommon to hear of a person who developed his proficiency in photography, radio, or taxidermy from just an idle interest into a means of earning a good living. It can be done and it is done. One man’s hobby is another man’s living; anyone who calls a hobby a waste of time has never had one. During the recent hard times more than one stamp collection brought enough money for a few meals, and more than one individual, losing his regular job, was glad indeed to fall back on his hobby as a means of replenishing a cupboard that was fast becoming bare. So when “there’s nothing to do”, snap off the radio, put away the cards, and choose a hobby to your interest. Not only will it add to your earning power, but it will also give you solid enjoyment and a merited pride in us- ing time so profitably. THE HOUSEKEEPER The day does housework with the wind for a broom, And cleans with light dark corners of gloom. The day feeds trees and flowers by her one Eternally life-giving breast—the sun. Later she rises and goes. Does she hear Of housework in some other hemisphere? Selma Whitehead

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HERBERT GAUDREAU TAXIDERMIST An Interview By Cliff Wilmath HE grubby-faced infant looked up at me with a glance which conveyed a mixture of hopeful curiosity and rather disinter- ested sympathy. “Are yuh goin’ ter get stuffed?” was the startling query which fought for issuance between two lic- orice-coated lips. ‘Surprised’ can at times be a very mild word. This was certainly no time when that statement was true. The cherub saw nothing amiss in his query, indeed he enlarged on his original theme without waiting for any reply we might have made. “Tha guy that lives in there,” pointing to the house which I was ap- proaching, “has stuffed everything but a red-headed ape.” I walked rapidly away from the urchin and took a dozen steps before the full portent of the childish speech struck me. Cold fear clutched at my heart, but mustering all my courage, I walked up to the door and boldly knocked. When the door was opened to admit me, imagine my surprise when I saw standing there, Herb Gaudreau, whom I have known for several years. “Shoot!” said Herb. I countered with a question about the processes involved in stuffing a bird and while he was making a technical reply, I took notes about him. Herb Gaudreau is a pleasant-looking, sandy-haired young man. It was only two years ago that Herb Gaudreau first took an interest in taxidermy. A friend loaned him a book on the subject which he eagerly devoured. The elementary knowledge which he gained from this little volume was all he needed to give vent to his enthusiasm for the sport. It was not long before his specimens attracted attention and soon he was mounting fish and game for sportsmen all over the state. Just a year had passed when Harvard University invited him to enter his mountings in their big exhibition. Here his work won the praise of experts throughout New England. Taxidermy is a study which requires a great deal of versatility. The taxidermist must be sculptor, artist, mechanic, ornithologist, zoologist, [Continued on page 26]

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THE MYSTERY OF THE LOST DUKE [Continued from page 9] “Well, sir,” replied the butler, leading the way. “If I might venture to say, sir, in all respect to ’is Lordship, sir, ’e sometimes h’is subjected to sloight h’attacks of lethargy, whereupon ’e remains in h’a stupor h’until someone wakes ’im. H’it’s a disease ’e got h’in the Tropics, sir, but I don’t believe this mental h’inadequacy made ’im disappear. H’it daon’t stand to reason, sir.” “Quite,” said Wolmes. “Is this the cellar?” By now we had reached the lowest floor in the house, and John conducted us along a dimly lit hall to a little, dusty door near the end. After it was unlocked, we stooped and entered the murky gloom of the wine closet. It was the usual damp affair, such as you see in any castle, with its rows of stained casks covered with cobwebs. “H’it’s just as I said, sir. ’E daon’t ’tseem to be ’ere,” said the butler, triumphantly. “Quite so, quite so, but what is that queer gurgling noise over in the corner, John?” “That’s the main water pipe, sir. H’it supplies water for all the commod- ities in the manor, sir.” “And who’d be using water at this time?” “Why, I cahn’t say, sir. The servants moight be doing the laundering, sir, but they usually does h’it on Saturday morning, sir,—” But suddenly Wolmes burst out excitedly, “Of course,—of course. I have it! Quick, Hotson. Follow me up stairs and run as you’ve never run before, if you ever want to save his life!” And away he ran, and I followed him as soon as I could recover from my surprise. “Hurry, Hotson, hurry!” I heard him cry, as he rounded a bend in the stair case. I found him in the hall on the top floor feverishly opening all the doors. “I sye there, Wolmes,” I called. “Wot are you doing thet for? You cahn’t do thet. Really, ole chappie, it just isn’t done.” “Quick, Hotson,” he urged. “Help me find a locked door. We may not yet be too late.” “Come, come, old chap,” I soothed, “Let’s go down to the study and I’ll get you a cool drink of—” “Ah, here it is!” he exclaimed triumphantly, as he rattled the knob of a door near the Duke’s bedroom. “Here, Hotson. Come and help me break it down.” Bewildered, I sprang forward to assist him, when the voice of the portly butler, who had just arrived, gasped, “Blimey, but you mustn’t do that. H’it’s’s Lordship’s private bathroom.” “Exactly,” said Wolmes. “Now, all together, one—two—three-push!” It took three such shoves to smash the heavy oaken door down. Then it [Continued on page 22]