Holbrook High School - Echo Yearbook (Holbrook, MA)

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THE ECHO 31 f ROY C. SMITH High Grade Milk and Cream W. F. DUGGAN Telephone: Randolph o 65 y Holbrook, Mass. A. E. BATES Pure Ice From Weymouth Reservoir Sprague Ave., Holbrook, Mass. Telephone Randolph 120-J L. F. HOLBROOK AUDRIE MARIE” Butter, Cheese, and Eggs Beauty Shop Wholesale and Retail Telephone 0607-M Holbrook, Mass. HAMILTON’S GARAGE, INC. Plymouth Street, Holbrook, Mass. PATRONIZE OUR ADVERTISERS

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30 THE ECHO exploits had landed by the cliff of the “Toothacre” property and left there a part of his treasure and with the treasure a jug of magic water. The belief was that any- one drinking this water would regain his long lost beauty. The treasures had been hidden in small niches at the right hand side of the cave. This the Captain knew, but because of the paralysis that had left his arms and hands useless, he was unable to move the stone that securely held the treasure, but did not hide it. A door slammed! Lizzie Joyce had left even though the story had not quite fin- ished. No one took any particular notice of her departure, the only recognition be- ing a slight chuckle from Captain Davis. The story continued. No doubt, we would be well rewarded if we lingered to hear more of the Captain’s yarns, but I must confess my curiosity makes it necessary for me to follow Lizzie Joyce. Where was she going ? Could it be possible that she had believed Captain Davis’ story! She must have, or she wouldn’t be started in that direction. The progress of her travels not being anywhere near as interesting as the result of her destination, it will be only neces- sary to say that Lizzie at last reached the cave. Yes, the box and jug were there and in a vary short time were tugged out on the beach. In what seemed less than a second, the top of the box was snatched off, and in the box was a mass of golden coins. “If Captain Davis had been right about the treasure — then indeed, why shouldn’t he be right about the magic water?” This was the only thought that was running in Lizzie’s superstitious mind. “At least it would do no harm to try the stuff. Ugh! What an awful taste! How much would it be necessary to drink? Two glasses would have to do.” How Lizzie at last reached the village again, I do not know, but at the first sight of her a crowd began to gather. Swaying from side to side and singing as loudly as her lungs would permit, she staggered down the street. Surely such a comical spectacle had never before been seen in Mountainville. Those who were watching Captain Davis wondered why the poor man was so purple in the face. Little did they know the thoughts that were running in his mind. “Magic water, indeed! How much of that ‘moonshine’ could that silly old goose have drunk? Those old gilded shells must have worked well for a treasure!” Ruth E. Dyer, ’30. Wiggins: “This is the plot of a mystery story I’m writing for the Echo: A midnight scene. Two burglars creep stealthily tow- ard the house; they climb a wall and force open a window. As they enter the room, the clock strikes one — Admiring listener : (breathlessly ) “Which one?” YE SOPHISTICATED SOPHS Press onward and forward, schoolmates all! At present we’re sophisticated sophs, till next fall. But spring is here, and with it comes strength, And we’ll be juniors and seniors at length. Now we have dear old Caesar, tried and true, But he’s nothing like Cicero, I’m telling you! And there’s geometry in my long list, But we’ll soon see Euclid through the mist. And there’s history and French, we all like well, There’s many a long beautiful name to spell, Next year we’ll be real Frenchmen, and how! Even to their polite manner and courtly bow. Just think how good and grammatical our speech; When we forget to say “ain’t”, Ma will screech. Such sudden changes don’t go well with her, Speaking French, asking for som e “bon buerre”. Oh well, that’s as it should be, you know, Life has ups and downs as the winds blow. Remember you’ll no longer be sophisticated Sophs; You’ll be advanced to Juniors, Look out for moths. E. H. Mann. KING FOR A DAY I caught a glimpse of a winding road That seemed to run away, Through the green roads, over far off hills, To where the red sun lay. I heard the sound of the river’s song, Over the mountain wall. I felt the rush of the laughing wind And hastened to its call. I took the trail of the winding road. So close to Nature’s heart. I dreamed that all of the world was mine, A king, I played my part. Mountains, brave streams, and the valley fair, Their beauty with me shared. ’Twas just as thro’ some unseen hand, Magic and music paired. I’ll keep that day in my treasure chest, A mem’ry tucked away, Of how I dreamed in that magic realm I ruled as king one day. Myron Holbrook, ’30.

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32 THE ECHO MR. CHAMPION The last bell rang, and we all passed From our rooms to the assembly hall, And there we saw the man at last, The champion of them all. He favored us first with a little talk On many things important to know, And then he made those poor keys hop. “Oh boy,” didn’t they go! He typed at various rates and speeds That none of us e’er shall forget We all did learn of our many needs And noted them with much regret. We Seniors had thought ourselves quite great. When in Miss Collins’ typewriting class, But the day when he typed at that rate, Showed all of us up at last. Christina Callahan, ’30. AUTUMN The Autumn is the season That I love best of all, When nature robes in glory, To welcome in the fall. The leaves turn many colors, First yellow, red, then brown; The winds soon whistle through them And then they tumble down. The skies are always clearest, The harvest moon we see; Oh! Yes, I love the Autumn, It is the best for me. Mildred Ernest, ’32. Oh winged bird, if I were you, I’d fly to the sky of azure blue, Then rest my wings on a lonely cloud While down below the wind whistled loud. Or — I’d go to the South where the palm trees grow. Far away from the winter’s snow — I’d build my nest in the tallest palm, And live in the joy of fragrant balm. But I am a tree and can only sway In the place where God would have me stay, While you, joyful birds, fly to and fro And flutter away when it starts to snow. Ruth E. Dyer, ’30. ON POETRY Some people think that poetry is So stupid and so dull, They often say it should be made Illegal, void, and null. They quite agree with him who said, (E’en though it’s in a verse!) “Poems are made by fools like me.” A fool could do no worse. But I do not agree with those Who have this point of view. I think that verse is something we Should value. Now, don’t you? For poetry gives a different touch To all things commonplace, And makes attractive many things Which we may have to face. So if you’ll carefully study it, You’ll surely find delight, And when I say that it’s a joy, You’ll say that I’m quite right. Pauline Blanchard, ’30. RAIN Do you like to listen to the rain As it dashes on the window pane, To see the drops come pelting down? Do you smile .... or do you frown? Have you listened in the still of night To its pattering so soft and light On the roof above or on the trees Accompanied by a whispering breeze? The soft-falling rain to the weary mind Gives the calmness and peace one longs to find; It gives rest from the tiresome tasks of the day And scatters the troubles and cares away. But when it comes with a rush and a roar, And the wind is whistling outside the door, We like to sit by the fire and read And to the rain pay little heed. But “variety is the spice of life,” Making living worth while the strife, Our lives change even as the rain. ’Tis well. Else what would be our gain? Pauline Blanchard, ’30. FAREWELL As now the days are drawing nigh When we must leave dear Sumner High, We think of all the happy days And the pleasures we had in many ways. From all our classmates we must part, And up that winding path we start, For we each have a different view Of future things we wish to do. We’ll always remember our teachers, too, In giving lessons that were not a few. They made us study from morn till noon, But that will now be over soon. Sumner High we soon will leave, Our hopes for the future we begin to weave. So now we utter with a sigh, Goodby, Dear Sumner; Sumner, goodby. D. Loeffler, ’30.