Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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But still after that there was one thing more. Something had troubled me all the week, And even the weather was cold and bleak. I sat at the desk, took paper and pen, And there I labored till almost ten. I had a poem to write for Miss Cole, But I couldn’t do it to save my soul. But what was the use of worrying? It never was worth while, So I packed up my books in my old school- bag, And I smiled, smiled, smiled. MARY A. NOURSE, ’20. THE UNFINISHED LESSON My lesson is “write a poem,” Which is a lesson hard, My thoughts at randon roam, I wish I were a bard. I tightly grip my pen And dip it in the ink, While in my cozy den I sit and think and think. I write of birds so gay, Flying home to their nest; Of sands at Ipswich Bay, Of Town Hill, and sunsets. I think of the bright fall, Of flowers in the spring, Summer, winter and all, And Oh! just everything! I write about women, About some pretty girl, I try my luck at men, My genius I unfurl. I think of orphans sad, Contrast to wealthy boys; Of Huns who make me mad, Killers of Belgium joys. About our soldiers here, Who guarded our homeland, Then of those ‘ ‘ over there ’ ’ Who fought in “no man’s land.” I write of our brave fight, Of our great victory, For we believe in right, Whatever the cost be. My teacher is to blame, I cannot write a pun, I bow my head in shame, My lesson is not done. EDITH M. SPYUT, ’19. THE DEAD The birds in the tree-tops forever sigh, As his soul is up-lifted in the velvet sky, For Death has lifted her golden wing To where the angels forever sing. He had always lived a clean, gay life, Through pain, sorrow, and fearful strife, But now he is lifted up on high, Forever to sleep in the velvet sky. lie will be missed for e ’er and e ’er, And is never to be forgotten in our daily prayer, He had forever served his country right, For he had died in the great world fight. Lying in cold, dreary Flanders’ Field, Amid the cannon’s din, roar, and peal, His body still unburied lies, With his face turned toward the big blue sky. Lying beside him, cold and still, Are his comrades who fell in taking the hill, No more shall they tremble at the can- non’s roar, For they have died in the great world war. GEORGE BENEDIX, ’20. 17

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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

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WHO? Who takes the novels from the girls, Looks through them with delight, And then goes to their desks for more. Just like he had the right? And up to us — ’pon the stairs, Whose sweet voice doth ascend? And then at lunch time who comes over The lunch to superintend? Who makes the pupil change their seats, And then in accents haughty, As back into his chair he swings. Says, “Naughty! Naughty! Naugh- ty!” EDNA HERLIHY, ’20. THE FRIEND Everyone’s so happy, everyone’s so gay, You know us Y. D. boys returned to-day. IIow my old pals laughed, how much they ’d been missed ! And I kind of thrilled at their being kissed. Gee ! it must be great, coming home to friends, And to fond parents (there I go again) Always complaining, just because, you know, ] am an orphan, with no place to go. Oh! I kind of wish (now what makes me sigh ? ) But I kind of wish, that they’d let me die. Just see his mother, gee, but do you know? Gosh I would like — like to have one so. Look at his dad, proud as he can be ; That ’s his kid sister, and his sweetheart — gee! What’s ailing me now, why am I so weak? What’s that darn tear doing on my cheek ? Now wouldn’t that phase you, making such a fuss! That’s just like me, a confounded cuss! I pick up my bag, and put on a grin, Great camouflage, easy as a pin ! Walk to some barrels right near the sea, Think I’ll jump over — ain’t I brave — aw gee ! What’s climbing up me? What’s licking my paw? It was the cuitest cur you ever saw, Little one, you know, with the loveliest eyes And kind of saying ‘ ‘ Cheer up, mate, I ’m wise!” So I stoop, you know, measly little hound And I sort of rub him, gently up and down, And he wags his tail, still licking my hands, And I kind of feel that he understands. “We’ll be pals, I swear by God who did send To my lonely life — you — my only fri end. ’ ’ LUCY BAILEY, ’19. A Question Answered “Oh God! Will I ever reach there?” A question it was, but unanswered. And yet — it had been asked time and time again by this lonely man — on a lonely road. Lonely for want of human beings- - but not of the bursting star shells over- head, and the shells screeching and moan- ing through the air. Above all this pan- demonium a steady “chug, chug’’ could be heard. A steady, persevering noise it was, and seemed to portray the inner workings of the man ’s mind, who found it hard work to keep in the seat of his bat- tered and torn motorcycle. Once he stopped — but only to go on again. Fail now 7 ? Never!! Stop now and lay down his task? The starting of the engine gave his answer, and once more the battered relic of the war was on its way. So the steady “chug, chug” went on and the pall of darkness became deeper, and deeper. Still the shells burst overhead, and in the distance the slow and monotonous drone of his cycle seemed to sear into the man’s brain, and once more the question went out into the night :