Bancroft School - Blue Moon Yearbook (Worcester, MA)

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THE BLUE MOON 43 day off. Then and there I resolved that I would never, never stay in bed on a school morning unless I was desperately sick. BARBARA PIERPONT, 1932 THE POSTMAN THE postman striding up the walk With pack of brown, and treasures rare, Bears notes wherein all joy is told Or friend with friend his grief doth share. His burdened back is bent with toil And weighted down with sealed regards: But recompense to him is given, For friends still send us postal cards. ELIZABETH GARDNER, 1932 FOR YOU FOR you, my one, my only one, I'll raise my voice in song: For you, my love, when all is won, I'll never do a wrong. You are the essence of sweet spring, That luscious time of year, When all the birds of heaven sing, And bring a joyful tear. You are my idol, that I swear VJith strengthened confirmation: You are my soul, I would not dare To utter a damnation! For you, my one, my only one, I'd overcome those dubs: I'd even walk a mile or more For you, my bag of clubs! MARY GARDNER, 1932 - ON PUTTING GOLF is my hobby. I can hold forthhon that subject by the hour, not intelligently perhaps, but with a great spirit which denotes my interest in that ancient game. Great men of knowledge have claimed to know about the origin of golf, but between you and me, I doubt the veracity of their

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42 THE BLUE MOON ON PRETENDING TO BE SICK WHEN one reads the Bible, it is as clear as the snow on the housetops that Eve did not get up to be attacked by a raging blizzard and a howling wind. Nor did she have to pretend she was sick when she wanted to sleep longer. During the week I often consider what a relief it would be to get sick and rest for a day or two. Friends would bring Howers and jellies, the telephone would be rung all day long by people inquiring for my health, and at school everybody would miss my sunny presence. Certainly that would be Hthe life ! Although Friday dawned a glorious day, it was so cold that I could not possibly resolve to get up. The wide-open windows were blurred with frost, the bed-clothes exposed to the air were cold as ice, and the snow had swept in on the carpet without melting. I decided that it was time for me to take a day off. When the maid came in to close the windows, I took delight in say- ing, No, Mary, I am not going to get up today. I have a bad cold. The clock slowly moved around to 8:30, and my decision was irrevocable. Soon the telephone would begin to ring, and flowers would arrive. Although twelve o'clock came without the realization of either hope, my spirits soared when I scented the odor of beef-steak and onions rising from the kitchen. I surely was hungry. About half an hour later, when I heard footsteps on the stairs and the clatter of dishes, I propped myself up in bed in preparation for the royal feast. I have never known such disappointment as when I saw on the tray some bouillon with a few saltines, and what a time I had balancing the tray on my knees. Why did I have to be on a liquid diet when I was not really sick after all? Shortly after one o'clock the telephone rang, and I listened to the conver- sation, or monologue I should say. Barbara? Barbara is not feeling well today. fHere I almost ventured to cry out that I had never felt better in my life, but refrained lest the family see through my ruse.j O, I am afraid she cannot. She will be so sorry to have missed your sleighing party, Charles. So that was it. Mother! Mother! I called, but there was no response. What a fool I was to have chosen to stay in bed this one day out of a million. I decided to throw all my fury into the Pythagorean theorem, but after working on it ten minutes, I tossed the book away in disgust, What right did Pythagorus have to invent such a puzzling problem? Like the rest of the Greeks he probably had everything his own way. He did not have to stay in bed all day when he wished to prolong his night's sleep into the morning hours. He always had clear warm weather to inspire him to arise, anyway. How could he have known what it is to miss a sleigh-ride? By supper time I was bored, stiff, and hungry, but I was allowed neither to read the paper, nor to eat any solids for supper, When I was put to bed at seven-thirty, I was fully convinced that it was a very poor idea to take a

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44 THE BLUE MOON reports. According to these sages, golf was commonly known as goff, gouf, or gowff, and it came from Holland. Personally, I can see an old Scotch duffer, dressed in plaids and rainbow-hued socks, swinging a crooked stick violently and unceasingly in the air, and menacing the position of a small, hard ball, but I cannot picture a stolid looking Dutch boy with wide panta- loons and clumsy wooden shoes, wearing a smile of smug satisfaction, daintily and gracefully attempting to knock a spherical body about. Somehow, I have always associated golf with Scotland. I don't know whether it is the well- known characteristic of the Scotch towards money compared with our own hatred of losing tees and our tedious searching for balls in wheat fields and other inconvenient places, or what it is. Undoubtedly, a goodly number of the inhabitants of this country believe that the game was invented by some insane creature, who went ramping about, first hitting a ball, then spending hours looking for it. But I disagree heartily with these people. They are unsympathetic. They lack that human quality, the joy of enjoying success. Naturally there must be some failure to make a real success No one can know without experience, the feeling of exultation that one enjoys after accomplishing that which he once thought impossible. If one succeeds in getting a good shot after four or five dubs, his sensation will be like that of seeing the first snow of the season or the first ray of sunshine after a week of continuous rain. I have been speaking of good shots. I meant a straight, lengthy drive, a perfectly arched spoon shot, or an iron shot, cracked out accurately and crisply. But who has ever spent much time on that infinitely important and seemingly insignificant part of the game, putting? Putting fyou aren't required to accept this opinionj is an achieve-- ment. It is the art of accurately and successfully getting the ball in the place it is meant to be: in other Words, the hole. On approaching the green, I am at first overwhelmed with the desire to make good, and be able to inscribe a fat four on the score card. Caddy, my putter. - Round head or straight-edge? -- Straight-edge. you nit-wit. CfCaddies are sometimes so stupid.j 'iHold the pin. I kneel down, get the lay of the land, and attempt to judge the force of the Wind. I spend at least three minutes doing this. Next I place the putter back of the ball, then in front, then in back, then in front again. Now, I must remember Jones' advice - to keep my weight on my left foot: and then I simply cannot forget the advice of Diegel and Burke about following through in a straight line to the hole. They must always be remembered and considered. As I bring back my putter, I experience an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. In my anxiety, I jab at the ball, and finding that I have hit it too hard, I hold my breath, and hang onto my putter as if my hands were glued to it. I am not a bit surprised to see that blasted ball bounce in, hit the back of the cup, and bounce out again. What I say under my breath, and what I say to my caddy I will not record here for the simple reason that many persons could not understand these reactions.