Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

Page 19 text:

lie met the maiden every day, It made her heart grow light and gay. But soon he must sail over the sea, Back again to his fair country. Every day at early morn, When th e sun first began to dawn, The Indian maiden would wander free To look for her lover over the sea. As the maiden stood on the rock one day, Watching over the waters so gay, The angel of death opened the gate, That she might pass in and for her lover wait. And so the legend we still hear, As the hill grows older year by year, That this is the reason for the fame Of the curious hill with the curious name. MARION PHILLIPS, ’19. MY VISION The stars float gently through the sky Like candles in the air; The meadow breezes waft to me The flowers’ perfume there. The trailing shades through moonlit glades Steal hither from the west ; Stirring the trees, the evening breeze Sinks gently into rest. I lifted my eyes to the dark’ning skies, As guided by a spell, Hark! what do I seem to hear? Soft music like a bell. The heavens are lit by holy light, They seem to part in two, Am I asleep? It can’t be so, For I hear the Night’s Curfew. My eyes are held by unseen force To that opening in the sky, And through it pass a heavenly throng, The dwellers up on high. Their robes are of the purest sheen Of beauteous brightness fair; Around their forms a wond’rous light Gleams in whiteness there. The angels part and Him I see, Leading by the hand A new arrival into heaven, A soul just from this land. It seemed his face grew plainer. Oh Lord, What can I see? My heart did bound with joy sublime. I cried, “Tis he, ’tis he!” It was my father led by Him Once more for me to see, And as I watched, an angel, too, Myself I seemed to be. Jesus touched him with a cross And he was robed in white, Then angel harps rang out again Into the stilled night. The heavens closed, I strained my eyes To see my father’s face, But it was gone and I prayed to God, And thanked His Holy Grace. LUCY M. LEE, ’22. MY WORST PUNISHMENT 1 ’ve heard of every punishment That is handed out by judges, To men who’ve tried to straighten Their disputes and their grudges; But never have 1 heard of one, With such chastising power, As to have to sit and practice One’s music by the hour. 15

Page 18 text:

HUBBY’S VACATION My darling, My darling, Come home to me now, To feed the poor hens, And milk the old cow. The sheep and pigs are calling, And everything is sad; The baby won’t stop bawling, And I cannot be glad. The garden needs a lot of care, The house needs painting new, And everything is upside down, Just waiting here for you. The furnace fire will not burn, The f liver will not start, If you don’t answer to my call, You’ll surely break my heart. The mice are eating everything, There’s no end to their sin, And I, poor wife, have worked so hard 1 ’m growing very thin. And many other things have happened Since last you went away, I’ll tell the rest to you, my dear, If you’ll come home to-day. CHRISTINE MOULTON, ’19. THE RETURN OF OUR HERO There comes a sound of many feet, Marching down the crowded street, A flag is in each person’s hand, They all are listening for the band. We fondly gaze to left and right, To see if he will pass our sight; Then suddenly a smiling boy W aves his hand to us in joy. It is our hero home once more, From fighting on the foreign shore, Our big, strong, stalwart hero Ted, And he is at the very head. The price he had to pay was dear, Yet he did it without fear, He lost his leg, ‘tis true, But he did all he could do. But now he is home at last, So we must forget the horrid past, And only think of the future so near Which we will spend with our loved one dear. CATHERINE CALDWELL, ’21. THOSE WHO DO NOT RETURN God bless them ! those who do not return, May they be honored and loved, And may they not be wholly forgotten, Those who ' have gone — our beloved. We cannot welcome them in this world, But soon we shall meet up above, And then we ’ll show our greatest thanks. Our reverence, honor, and love. But they shall not be forgotten, Those whom they left over here, And we’ll join together as one, Llear Lord, and welcome their loved ones so dear. God bless them ! as they lie in graves, Marked by the little white cross, God bless them! all those gallant braves, The nation’s greatest loss. GEORGIA E. REID, ’19. THE LEGEND OF HEARTBREAK HILL There is a story often told, ♦ Of an Indian maid and her lover bold. She belonged to the Agawam tribe, Her lover came from the good ship Guide. He came from far over the sea To buy a cargo of tobacco and tea, To take to his people who were at home, Awaiting his return from over the foam. 14

Page 20 text:

If a fellow s-tarts an argument With (we’ll say) his little brother, As sure as time, if he turns ’round, In the doorway stands his mother. She won’t say piuch, but gee, such looks! ’T would make sweet milk turn sour, And then she’ll say, “Step right in here And practice for one hour.” Then in the parlor one must go And sit upon a stool, And play and count and count and play Till one feels like a fool ; While little brother, darling boy (?) On the lawn leaps about and jeers, Oh for a chance to catch that kid, And soundly box his ears ! If a fellow must be punished, 1 think ’t would be more wise To make him practice playing ball And learn to catch high flies, ’Cause he might make some big league team And be his friends’ great joy; Then his people would have reason Tc be proud of their big boy. Darn Music! it’s an awful grind. I ' d rather split up wood, For when I have to practice, T simply can’t be good. I wish the man who invented A piano, drum, or horn, Had died while yet an infant, Or else never had been born. RICHARD RALPH, ’20. WHEN MY JIM RETURNS Now that the war is over, And my Jim is coming back, I’ll meet him when his ship comes in, And tap him on his back. I’ll say, “Jim boy, you’ve done your bit Without a growl or whine, And I’ll bet a franc, that over in France You made pie of the Hindenburg line.” I ' ll also say, “my khaki boy, I’ve done my little bit too, I’ve bought thrift stamps, and helped the camps, And bought a bond or two.” I’ll tell him of the slacker class, Who shirked at their country’s cry, And as I tell him, I bet I’ll see A flash come in his eye. He’ll come home packed with souvenirs, Among them helmets too, And here and there from under his pack, We’ll see a Boche’s shoe. He then will come to me and say ‘ ‘ Gee ! pa, but it was fun, We beat the Bodies fair and square, And had them on the run. “We chased them many a dreary mile, And made them cry and whine, We chased them out of Belgium dear, And clear across the Rhine. “We’d got the Kaiser, sure and true, If he ’d not gone to Holland, And if we’d got him, dear old dad, We’d have beat him into pollen. “But as it was he’s safe at last, But I don’t give a rap, For you believe me, ma and dad, I ’m glad to get safe back. ’ ’ GEORGE BENEDIX, ’21. A DIFFICULTY IN JUNIOR ENGLISH It was Sunday night and late at that, Time to wind up the clock and put out the cat. I picked up the papers and fastened the door, 16