Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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To Gertrude Stein A poem is a poem is a poem and so As I think as I write and I write as I think As I ponder and ponder with ponderings, and so As I read what I write, I read and I blink, As I think as I ponder and blink as I write. I must have a subject, a subject, indeed, which Makes sense in a sentence where a sentence is right, So I ponder and blink and think as I blink, Which Is whicher of which is the Whicher”? So I choose And I loose as I choose all my blinkings And thinking of subjects I choose all I loose, And also and so and so also so, my thinkings I loose as I choose and I think As I ponder and write as I blink! Frances Pinkham

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Tite Cjolden Disregarding the traffic lights that forbade him to cross, he started to go when a strong arm pulled him back onto the pavement. For an instant he dismissed all other thoughts from his mind to see who had dared stop him from crossing the street and he looked up into the jovial face of Tim Duggan. Sure, but what is on the mind of my friend that makes him, a police officer, cross the street on a red light? queried the patrolman. Oh! It’s you, Tim. I didn’t know just what I was doing, I guess. You see I was thinking,” he confessed lamely. You don’t say, and if it’s not getting too personal, what were you thinkin’ about?” Mulvey, who had again unconsciously forgotten his immediate surroundings, shook himself. Uhhh. What was that you were saying, Tim?” So that’s it. You’re worryin’ about that son of yours again? Well, don’c worry, John. You know he’s just at that restless stage when he wants to see the world. I bet you had the same feelin’ yourself. Now didn’t you?” Mulvey confessed that he’d had some sort of notion in his younger days. You see that’s just what he’s done. Wanted to see a bit of the world before he settled down, that’s natural, isn’t it?” That may be all right, Tim, but I overheard a conversation tonight. It concerned something I have thought a lot about and hoped no one else would think of. He shrugged his shoulders. Foolish, I admit, but something within me tells me not to investigate these 'boy bandit’ robberies any further.” Why?” Because-----” Because you think John is back of them,” finished the patrolman. And who was it who had the same idea on their mind, may I ask?” Oh, Coneghan, I think.” At the mention of Coneghan’s name, Tim went into an elaborated descrip- tion of the man. Don’t listen to him, my boy (Mulvey was much older than himself). They’re like a bunch of old women; they will talk about anything.” The two conversed for several minutes more on a variety of subjects before Mulvey consulted his watch and found it to be after ten o'clock and that his hot dinner” was in all events now cold. He started to say his goodbye when he broke off and demanded his friend's revolver. Why? Surely you’re not thinking of suicide, my friend,” said the police- man always ready with a humorous reply. Come, quick, I must have the gun.” And then by way of explanation he pointed to a single row of footprints that led up to the now empty Van Doran residence. The footprints had been made while they had stood talking. (continued on page 45) 11

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OR two solid hours we had sat spellbound watching the breathtak- ing adventures of Martin Johnson’s motion picture, Wings Over Africa. Elephant stampedes and charging rhinos made even these daring people tense with fear. In just a few minutes we were going to venture an interview with this courageous couple who constantly courted death in the wilds of Africa. Inside the lobby we soon were shaking hands with the hero of Africa, Martin Johnson, a tall, well-built man with laughing blue eyes and sandy-colored hair. Osa, his wife, stood close by, a petite, dark haired woman with a fascinating smile. From her appearance one could more easily picture her entertaining in the drawing room than charging wild African animals. Glancing for a minute at a copy of the Golden Rod we had brought with us and knowing our desires, Mr. Johnson smiled and said, Tell the boys and girls back in Quincy not to worry about where the next dollar is coming from. I never do.” In fact, when he was younger, he was never discouraged by what people told him, but went on trying to do the thing that he wished and as you know he surely has succeeded! Even now he and his wife like their work so much that on their next trip they intend to walk 900 miles in the Belgian Congo to do some more photographing. Their life is full of thrills, variety, and often times danger. Once when they had built a blind and were photographing some nearby leopards, the wind suddenly changed and the animals caught their scent. One of the leopards leaped through the blind and with gaping jaws made right for Mr. Johnson. Only a foot away from Mr. Johnson’s face he was stopped in his tracks by Osa, a crack shot who always stands guard while her husband shoots his pictures. The leopard was so close that when he was shot he fell right on top of the camera. It is only in instances like this that the Johnsons ever kill any animals In fact, Mr. Johnson added, A hunter does not kill as many animals in a year as a lion kills in one night.” (continued on page Jt5)