Holten High School - Onion Yearbook (Danvers, MA)

Page 16 text:

14 THE HOLTEN THE MEMORY FLOWER Dear Mothers and Dads, Friends, and Teachers: Time is again up to his old tricks. He is again flinging into the Past what were the Present and the Fu- ture for us, but unfortunately we can still cling to what has gone before. There is a flower called Memory which grows in old-fashioned gar- dens. In the full bloom of its season, the blossom iiames blood-red, but as the days pass on, whiter and paler grow the petals. Memory has been the inspiration and conviction of na- tions and religions, it has wafted its fragrant aroma to dispel moments of great despondency and bewilder- mentg and always has it been our gentle guide and reminder when fool- ish impetuosity would have led us to the yawning verge. Within the blossom cup of every Memory flower, there nestle the mem- ories of many things 3-yet those memories which remain the freshest and most fragrant are the simple pleasures of Life. Those pleasures which at the time appeal so vividly to the five senses are the pleasures which quickest fade. The pleasures which bring deep satisfaction to the soul are the true pleasures. When we feel content with what Life has offered, when we no longer feel an urge for an indefinite Something, then we are experiencing complete en- joyment. To be contented, however, and to fall into a rut where neither ambition nor outside interest stirs are two vastly different states. Con- tentment is by no means dormant, for it, too, rises still to meet certain idealsg yet in time of failure, content- ment has a solid foundation to fall back upon, while the disappointed star-gazer falls through empty space. Contentment dwells in solitudes where Nature has her own sweet way and holds a store of rich discoveries for the keen eye,-discovery both in our surroundings and in ourselves. How little we hold communion with ourselves, how little we know our- selves. Too quickly we reject our own higher thoughts, for they seem to have no proper setting in the modern lives we lead. We are continually im- poverishing what is noble and fine in us for what is more commonplace, we are subordinating the fine themes of the old masters to the trivial ex- pression of our age. While we con- tinue to live with our eyes averted from what is real and what is truly beautiful, with our thoughts always a part of the mob's mixing bowl, we shall never really know ourselves. We need to seek the solitude of the woods and to lie upon some bank of pine- needles where the sun is warm and the smell of the earth is all-pervading, and where there is the drowsy hum of drowsy insects,or the stealthy crack- ling of the twigs disturbed by a cu- rious bird. We need to see the pine trees rising boldly and independent- ly with the blue of the sky above, and Infinity beyond. Then we give free rein to those hitherto suppressed thoughts, then we experience true pleasure. The farther we try to travel away from Nature, the greater is the jerk that pulls us back. All man-made in- ventions upon which we put such a premium are after all only the proper application of Nature's resources. The resources have always been there, but not the eye keen enough to perceive. Each eye was placed where only one

Page 15 text:

THE HOLTEN 13 The author besides being a poet is wholly and undividedly American. As a representative of America in this modern era he has sought for indi- vidualism in style and thought. His style is unique, for the poem is writ- ten in blank verse, in free verse, in rhyme, and in prose. His poetry is rugged, clean cut, and vivid. The fact that he was the first ever to at- tempt an epic of America is proof enough of his individual daring-call it inconstancy, changeablness, or what you will. He attempted to catch the spark of Americanism and put it into his poem. In his Invocation, which is one of the finest examples of good verse today, he describes the genuine American literature and ex- presses the hope that he may capture the American Muse. That he realizes the greatness of his undertaking, the adverse criticism and the failure to appeal to another's imagination is stated in these lines: American muse, whose strong and diverse heart, So many men have tried to under- stand But only make it smaller with their art, Because you are as various as your land, As mountainous deep, as flowered with blue rivers, Thirsty with deserts, buried under snows, As native as the shape of Navajo quivers. And native, too, as the sea-voyaged rose. Swift runner, never captured or sub- dued, Seven-branched elk beside the moun- tain stream, That half a hundred hunters have pursued But never matched their bullets with the dream, Where the great huntsmen failed, I set my sorry And mortal snare for your immortal quarry. Yet, as we hunt you down, you must escape And we pursue a shadow of our own That can be caught in a magician's cape But has the flatness of a painted stone. Read casually with the mind of a realist the poem has the fiatness of a painted stone, but we can catch the inmost spirit of its substance in our magician's cape, our imagination. That underlying spirit is the spirit of John Brown. He was the stone hurl- ed from the Stone Mountain, War, which struck and slowly crumbled bit by bit the strong barrier of slavery. He started all the other stones in the mountain on their way and they struck the wall with even greater force. And as the war was fought, the slaves were freed, North and South were one again-yet what was Benet's conclusion? Has anything changed? Even though the wall was broken down, was it and all it signi- fied completely blotted out? No. The slaves of industry still remain: labor is the slave of capital: poverty is the slave of wealth: personal freedom is the slave of convention. John Brown, your spirit is here and well needs to be, for- Nothing is changed, John Brown, nothing is changed. l Caroline Butler.

Page 17 text:

THE 1-IOLTEN 15 ray might fall that it might bear wit- ness of that ray. Down on the wide sandy shore, with waves splashing their jewelled crests in patterned designs upon the beach, with a white sail musing on an indefinite horizon, with a cordial sun warming us to idleness, and a salt- laden breeze, refreshing our appetites as no hors-doeuvre could do, we won- der vaguely what good our mechani- cal miracles are, anyway. Nature teaches us to distinguish between the false and genuine values of life. When the sun is very persuasive, and the breezes most caressing, the petals of the Memory flower unfold as far as they can. All the pleasant memories come trooping over the edge. One of the very loveliest mem- ories that have ever unfolded for me was a quiet and most unassuming river trip I once took. The river was neither large nor un- usual in any way, but the memory of this trip is ever fresh in my mind. We started out in a small row-boat. The sun was commencing its long- drawn-out farewell for the day. At first the rowing was easy. The broad lily pads caressed the blunt prow as it gently passed over them. We were going directly into the sun it seemed and the great light hurt our eyes, but as we advanced the sun sank gradual- ly toward the horizon, gleaming invit- ingly between the tall pines and low shrubs. The shores grew extremely wild and Nature's fancy seemed sat- isfied. It was very, very quiet on this little river, save for the regular dip of the oars, the gurgling rush of wa- ter along the prow, and then the tiny splash of pearly drops from the gleaming blades. In a dark sequester- ed nook we suddenly saw a blue heron which might have been transferred to his lily pad from a bit of rose me- dallion china. Tranquil and graceful, he stood upon one long leg. We tried to paddle up to him without his per- ceiving us. Nearer and nearer the boat slipped toward him. Almost there--but he heard and flew away to the bosom of the forest. We went on up the river. Presently a barrier loomed up,-a thickly wooded shore. So this then was the end of the river. No. What had appeared a barrier turned out to be a wooded island on the other side of which the river me- andered on again. Two men were fish- ing there. They had stopped content with the spot. Silently we went on. The water was shallow in places. Oc- casionally a restless perch splashed about or a turtle was disturbed from his late suntan-bath by our coming. Green slime like a gossamer floated just below the water surface. Lux- urious crops of sedge coarser than wild oats but as fresh-looking choked up the water-way in many places. We went on and on. The end must be near. At last we found ourselves in a perfect maze of devious winding streams with the wind blowing through the sedge making it ripple and billow like the water. Night was coming on fast. Huge jagged night clouds piled up in the sky, crossing like swords the last wee gleams of the forbidden sun which still beckoned, -invitingly. We could advance no further, yet we had by no means reached the end. All about us many new streams were commencing all o- ver again and ending as abruptly. We were in the midst of severe desolation and even mystery, but the joy of hav- ing followed the main stream that far was supreme. The urge still com- manded us 'to go on'. All through the course of our high school life our class has been making a similar trip up the river. Tonight's graduation has brought us into the maze Of infinite opportunities stretch-