Holbrook High School - Echo Yearbook (Holbrook, MA)

Page 18 text:

16 THE ECHO “HE WHO LAUGHS LAST, LAUGHS HEARTIEST’’ L IEUT. Thomas Bradford brought the sputtering old Ford to a stop in a front of the quarters of Col. Gordon, Commandant of Fort Howard Sill. His uniform was more spotless than usual, perhaps because he was to call on Mary Lou, the sweet daughter of the sour old Colonel. All the junior officers were anxious to visit those quarters, for it was here only that the “old man” lost some of the sternness, taciturnity, discipline, and strictness which had earned for him the nick-name of “The Martinet”. Not stopping to lock the car, for the key had long since been lost, he bounded up the broad white steps. As he neared the door, he heard the lovely voice of Mary Lou singing some of the old songs for which Southern women are famous the world over. “Good evenin’, Tom. We’re delighted to see you — do come in.” Tom groaned inwardly — did the we mean that the old Colonel was to sit around — or in the vernacular of the younger personnel — “hang around” all evening. However, after saluting the junior and uttering a few com- monplaces, the “tiger” left, probably to sit in his den for hours, reading military man- uals and dreaming over the lovely miniature, which was Mary Lou’s mother. While Tom and Mary Lou were thinking, talking, and planning many things that young people very much in love do plan, the old Colonel sat musing over the days when he, too, had been a young “shave-tail”, the dignified name usually given to the young- est graduate of the Point. He had promised his wife that he would do the best he could to bring Mary Lou up — and for an old soldier to bring up a tiny daughter in an army post was no easy matter. Mary Lou always had been, from her toddling days, the pride and joy of the troop. From the time she could talk, she had been “the old man’s daughter” and “the real commanding- officer” — not a man but in whom she had the greatest interest, from the gruff old stable sergeant who first taught her to ride, to the newest recruit who had run away from home to join the army. She knew them all by name, and Mary Lou Gordon was known from the Presidio to Governor’s Is- land, as the sweetest girl in the army, while her father was equally well known as “the old war lion”. Lieut. Bradford was first one of many callers who had been cordially re- ceived by him and now that he was nearing the retiring age, he was glad to have his daughter engaged to one of the most promis- ing men of the day. The Bradfords were a long and dis- tinguished line of soldiers — Bradford had fought in the war for freedom, in the Indian wars, Chinese wars, Cuban wars, in fact, from the time of the First Continental Army there had been a Bradford in the cavalry. All had served long and honorably; no stigma or even taint of dishonor had touched the name. The Gordon line was equally famous, hard riding, straight-shooting — they had the reputation of having their men “follow them through H ”. And now, the two most famous lines in the army were to unite. They had the good wishes of the outfit. Lieut. Bradford left the house shortly after the last beautiful strains of taps had sounded through the air. It was a beautiful post — broad parade ground, bordered with gorgeous old chestnut trees, the officers’ row of houses, all old fashioned colonial style, with broad pillars and flowering lawns. Sur- rounding the whole post was a high wall, which in its crevices were sheltered many guns — all always ready to protect the fort. Stopping only for a last look at Mary Lou and a hasty glance around the beauty of the post, Tom hopped into the old flivver and away to his quarters. The next morning a white-faced orderly brought him an order to remain in his quarters “under arrest” until Col. Gordon should see him. Completely abashed and puzzled, there was nothing for Tom to do but obey. Try as he would, he could think of no lapse of duty, no infringement of rules — he could only wait. When Col. Gordon arrived, he was pale and plainly worried. “Tom, Capt. Brown has sworn out a war- rant for your arrest. He says you have stolen his car, and worst of all, his story checks.” “But his car. I don’t understand. I left mine in front of your quarters, and it was there when I took it home. The fool is just plain jealous and has tried to frame me.” “The car in your garage is his, Tom, and yours was found ornamenting the parade ground. Certainly,” and here Col. Gordon smiled in spite of himself, “no flattering- ornament.” “But they’re both the same, Col. It must be a joke. Someone must have changed them. They’re both just rattle-traps. The key is gone from mine; I can’t lock it. As for his, it’s even worse than mine and not worth the stealing.” “Well, buck up, lad — Mary Lou and I are for you. I’ve set your court-martial for day after tomorrow. Shall I act as your defense counsel, or will you act for yourself? Capt. Brown’s action had made the court-martial procedure imperative. Regulation, etc., you know, but we’ll do our best.” “Thank you, sir. Tell Mary Lou not to worry, and under the circumstances, per- haps Col. Smith had better be counsel.” The court-martial hour arrived, and Tom was escorted to Headquarters. Mary Lou had written a cheerful note and was not particularly worried, or so it seemed to Tom. On the way down he passed three or four brother officers. Were they actually hiding- smiles at his discomforture, or was the whole affair getting on his nerve? Even Col. Gordon had a rather facetious air ! Poor Tom, his mind was in a whirl during that all too brief march to the court. As he mounted the steps, Mary Lou passed and in answer to his grave salute actually winked.

Page 17 text:

THE ECHO 15 Bob got his reward for working faithful, and he was also advanced at the station for bravery. Francis Chase. FATE B R-R-R-R-, came the wheezy ringing of the one-year guarantee alarm clock, for once going off within ten minutes of the ap- pointed time. Joan sleepily applauded “Old Lizzie” as she crawled from under the warm blankets to the icy linoleum floor. “Booh,” she cried in dismay hopping swiftly back on the bed to put on her stock- ings and worn shoes. “It’s a wonder that I can’t remember not to step on that linoleum before putting something on my feet. Walk- ing on that alone is enough to give me pneumonia ; now, add the poor heating to that, and I’ll soon have double pneumonia. Just wait, Mr. Piece of Linoleum, when I get rich — out you go in double quick time!” Joan counted her flat purse before leaving her room — just $2.10 left. With a sigh of regret she shook her lovely little blonde head at the offending piece, “Not enough to waste on a velvet rug, so you’ll have to stay there awhile yet.” Out she flounced, her shabby looking suit fully telling its story to the casual glance of strangers — a story that was not unusual, for it was of a poor girl, out of a job, with nobody to help her or give her money. With- out bothering to spend any money on break- fast, Joan swiftly made her way to the pub- lic library. Once there she avidly perused the female want advertisements, but only one thing could possibly be of any use to her in their contents. It read : Contest. Simply send a dollar, and write a paragraph of one hundred words describ- ing the cat shown above. The prizes, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, are usable articles, each costing at least five dollars. In previous contests persons have received prizes of groceries worth ten dollars, household articles, etc. Contest closes in thirty days. Joan thought quickly, “Could she spend a dollar of her precious fund on this?” If she did, there was a chance of receiving the groceries which would at least keep her alive for some time if she did not find work. Gamely she decided she would, and taking a pencil and paper from her old brown purse, Joan brought into use all the excellent education that she had had. It was in the late afternoon when finally it was finished. With gnawing pains of hunger, Joan bought a glass of milk and a hot dog. Her hunger somewhat abated, Joan scurried home. Here she suffered more occasions to glare at and cuss the little linoleum piece. The days passed slowly with Joan sus- taining herself on only a glass of milk some days, but every day bringing provocation from the linoleum rug. Then one day when she had again unsuc- cessful completed the circuit of agencies and was wondering how she could live on the nickel left in the brown purse, a long official locking letter was shoved under the door along with the daily uncivil note of the landlady requesting her rent. The cold still silence of Joan’s room was broken by a series of triumphant gurgles as she read the address of the “Cat Contest’ on the outside. Joan’s fingers, already white and starved looking, tore the epistle open. Briefly it stated her description was very good but not so good as some others, so they were send- ing her the fifth prize. At that moment the doorbell rang. Joan leaped to open it. A messenger boy scruti- nized the thin starved face that greeted him and said, “Package, Miss.” Joan seized the long bundle and thanked the boy. Back in her own room she hastily untied the strings. As the desperate girl viewed the contents, she fell heavily to the floor. There, in the heavy wrapping paper, was a cold, icy piece of linoleum! The freezing silence of the dim little room was still unbroken at the hour of midnight except for the faithful wheezing purr of “Old Lizzie”. R. Hill, ’34. MAGNOLIA GARDENS The Southland is at its loveliest in the early spring. The estate named Magnolia Gardens, situated on the Ashley River, is about ten miles from Charleston, South Carolina, the city of gentility and charm. The glory of these gardens is the gorgeous coloring of the azaleas, burning, glowing, and shining like some miracle. Some of the bushes are as much as twenty feet through and fifteen feet high with solid masses of blossoms in all shades of red, from palest pink to deepest crimson, from lilac-blue to deepest purple, and now and then a pure white bush like a bride in her snowy lace. It is almost impossible to give an idea of the beauty and charm in this garden. Long walks with moss-draped live oaks overhead, a lake and bridge in the distance, and on each side are the great masses of rose, pink, and crimson, reaching far above your head. There are thousands and thousands of blos- soms packed close together with no green to mar the intensity of their color. These wonderful gardens cover twenty- five acres, presenting a riot of azaleas, camel- lia, japonicas, and wisteria of lovely rain- bow colors, of all hues and tints, and rho- dodendrons in endless and gorgeous pro- fusion. It is reputed as being one of the most beautiful gardens in the world. Visitors from far and near enjoy its beauty. “Nothing you have ever seen can prepare you for them; Nothing you will ever see will make you forget them.”

Page 19 text:

THE ECHO 17 Now Tom was befuddled and cursed the rule that made an officer “confined to quarters” a hermit, as it were. Surely the whole thing was a farce — he, a Bradford, accused of thieving like a common horse thief. It was raw. During the trial had not Tom been so be- fuddled and worried he would have noticed many furtive grins and technical irregular- ities. The jury, five of his brother officers, went out to decide his fate and came solemn- ly back again. “We find the prisoner guilty — of nothing; the penalty — drinks for the crowd. Right then and there Tom proved his sportsmanship at the ghastly joke at his expense. He gravely saluted and left the room without a word. At the door Mary Lou awaited him, “Oh, Tom, I tried to let you know, but I couldn’t. Dad and I just learned of it all this morn- ing.” Tom’s answer is not important, but to the officers’ men that evening was delivered a big case containing — not the anticipated drinks — but several bottles of Grade A milk. Leslie Thorud. ONLY HALF SHOT He placed his cheek upon the stock And nicely set his arm. He set his thumb against the lock And hoped it would not jam. He stood and waited in suspense; The gun’s weight had increased; He squeezed it with his finger tense; The lock had been released. He knew a perfect shot he’d make, The sun was getting hot; He squeezed until his arms would ache, But still he heard no shot. He took the gun apart to see Why it had not exploded; Then, leaning on a nearby tree, He found it was not loaded. F. Kierstead, ’32. DOINGS ON THE DESK The pencil has made quite a number of pointed remarks about the sponge being soaked all day, and the waste basket being full. The scissors are cutting up and the paper weight is trying to hold them down, while the paste is sticking around to see the stamps get a good licking. The ink’s well but appears to be blue, while Bill is stuck on the file, and the calendar is looking fresher after having a month off. The blotter is lying around taking it all in. ! Twas a summer’s night and very warm. It seemed we were in for a thunder storm. I couldn’t sleep, and so for a lark I dressed and took a stroll in the dark. A way I went along the street, The only sound my moving feet, And thought that I was all alone, Enjoying myself in the cool ozone. My thoughts took me to years ago When the world was new and much more slow, To the cave man and his means and ways And the animals of those prehistoric days. To the dinosaurs and the other beasts Who were the victims of cave men’s feasts, And hoped there were none to bar my way, At least until the break of day. What was that? My heart it stilled ! My head it ached, and I felt chilled ! For in front of me were eyes so bright That I almost swooned from awful fright. I turned to run when through the air A smell arose I could hardly bear. My face it paled, and my throat just shrunk, And I knew the thing was a frightened skunk. I wandered back into my home With mind made up no more to roam, Pledged never to take another walk When skunks are around to make back talk. A. McMurray, ’32. SHORTHAND Shorthand is a terrible study My mind instead of clear is muddy. Miss Collins says it is a cinch, But for those words she sure must fiinqh. This Shorthand teacher has a line That makes you think Shorthand is fine. “A child can do this work”, says she, But what a child that one must be. Each day she’s teaching something new. That I don’t learn, yes, it is true. No normal child could learn it all, Though she may try from spring to fall. To teach that subject is a crime; I’d drop it now for half a dime, But still the teacher’s good and kind And ones like her are hard to find. Our interest she is bound to hold, And in her class there’s fun untold. I hope that you are warned in time, To soak your shorthand book in lime. I know that you won’t heed this verse Though I insist shorthand’s a curse. Now take shorthand and study hard Your rank will show on each flunk card. “Nick.”