Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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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 :

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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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“Oh God! Will I ever reach there?” Morning dawned clear and bright. What the darkness had hidden, the day- light revealed. A road — which bore no semblance of what it was intended to be — torn, and full of shell holes. Trees with their trunks and branches broken, lay stretched across the road. But not only the road had suffered. All that the eye could see was easily described in one word — slaughter! Slaughter of nature’s handi- work, and slaughter of human beings! Dim and unreal it seemed, but the filmy haze of smoke, receding in the distance, served to recall one actual fact — and it needed not the dull, resonant roar of can- nons to remind one that they had caused all this havoc. Then suddenly the noise in the distance vstopped. It seemed as if, like a tired child, the guns had ceased their noise, and gone to sleep, — and stillness reigned supreme in this place of desolation and destruction. Unnatural? Yes, But it seemed as if this very stillness was a fitting dedication to all the bruised and dead things caused by the onward rush of war. The scene w,as only one of the many appalling results. Then slowly there came drifting, as it were, along the remnant of a road — a van. A large covered van — but bow welcome a sight to eyes that might watch and weary for it. Only a Red Cross ambulance — but how emblematic it seemed of the great and merciful work which inspired many to do their best ! Nearer and neared it came. Stopping and starting, picking the way as best it could, and meanwhile the two men in it carried on a conversation thus : “Where to, Ned?” “Just over to the field hospital.” “What for?” “To get Cameron. Got some awful wounds last night. Practically shot to pieces. Not much show for him.” “How did it happen?” “He had to carry an important dis- patch over to field headquarters. His machine was pretty well broken up, but he had to come, and there was no way but along this road, so you see that he came right through the barrage which was going on this morning before that battle started. I think the dispatch he brought was concerning the enemies ’ posit ions. I guess what he did practically saved the day.” Thus a desultory conversation was car- ried on; short, brief, and concise, until the van drew up in front of a large frame building. The two men jumped out, pulled out a stretcher, and entered the hospital. Soon they came out — but their stretcher was empty. “Another gone West” was their mu- tual thought, but of their actual feelings they showed none. Such things were hourly occurrences to them, — but what of his folks at home? For them — one com- forting thought : “Peace he had ' gained, And his question was answered. But the price he had paid With his life — unafraid ! Ah ! He died gloriously ! His country to save.” GEORGIA E. REID, ’19. MME. CATHERINE BRESHKOVISKY OR THE LITTLE GRANDMOTHER OF THE RUSSIAN REVOLUTION. I had the fortune, or better, the honor to hear Mme. Breshkovisky speak at Trem- ont Temple this winter. Hers is a face never to be forgotten. The calmness of her manner is wonderful, the expression of the hands, which are continually mov- ing is most unusual, her voice is sweet and low, her smile winning and childlike. 19