Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

Page 17 text:

A GHOSTLY EVENING It was our first evening in camp. All the boys were glad to be back. We were telling stories around the fire, though we did not really need the fire as it had been a very warm day. Finally someone told a ghost story and after that all the stories were about ghosts. It was a dark night ; the moon was behind a thick cloud ; the wind blew in gusts foretelling a storm ; the water of the lake beat angrily upon the shore ; the thunder boomed sullenly ; and jagged flashes of lightning stood out against the darkening sky. A particular- ly ghostly story had been told and the younger boys were really frightened. Some of us older boys, too, were begin- ning to get a little shivery. A twig snap- ped near by and our hearts almost stop- ped beating. An owl hooted far off ; in the distance a dog bayed at the moon; and in the heavy darkness we seemed t( feel airy touches on our faces and should- ers. No one spoke but each was thinking of all the ghost stories he had ever hea:u. In spite of the sultry heat we all drew nearer the fire, for it made us feel a little better to have our neighbors close beside us. The laugh of a loon rang out over the lake like the laugh of a tortured soul. Night was closing in and now we could see nothing but a wall of darkness beyond the circle of the fire, and between the peals of thunder we could hear nothing but the beating of the angry waves on the shore. We jumped at every little sound. A harmless rabbit scuttling through the bushes frightened us as if a ghest were coming. Flashes of lightning touched familiar objects with a ghostly light and seemed to intensify the darkness which followed. It was very still, except for the thunder which rumbled and roared a p ter each flash. One of the boys cried out sharply and looking where he pointed we felt our blood freeze and our hair rise. No one dared to move and all were rooted to the spot. We saw something tall, white, wav- ering, thin; and a pair of gleaming, cruel, unnatural, cold eyes. In one spot we could see the gleam of the water through it. It sighed, and again the laugh of the loon rang out over the lake. This time the sound was cold and bloodthirsty. Slowly the ghost wavered first to one side, then to the other. Just then the rain struck, and not waiting to see whether the ghost followed, we bolted for the tents to burrow into our blankets. DOROTHY SHAW, 1923. DUTIES ON THE FARM • k H- h ■ Getting up in the morning early, Almost at break of day, Straining the milk in the dairy, Turning the cows away. Washing the breakfast dishes, Dusting the parlor chairs, Roasting the meat for dinner, Making the beds upstairs. Churning the golden butter, Hunting for eg gs in the hay, Feeding the geese and the poultry, Scarce having time for play. With cheeks as red as roses, And teeth as white as pearls, This little country lassie, Is worth scores of city girls. ESTHER BISSON, 1921. 13

Page 16 text:

spy or prowler. The sun, hesitating on the brink of the horizon, gave one last, blood-reflected glance and slipped behind the hills as if to shut out the horrible scene before it. Within the battered, decrepit walls of Waterloo there was fatigue but no slum- ber ; there was hunger, but no food ; there was thirst but no water; there were dead bodies but no graves ; there were leaders without followers and followers without leaders. It was a terrible night. Except for those who were to sleep forever, there was no rest. In a corner beneath some vines lay a Frenchman, groaning for water, and call- ing for his little lame boy. Yes, it was Bossuet’s father, Combeferre. While he was praying for his child the hand of Providence, or the hand of Fate, (who could tell which?) was guiding Bos- suet on his home-made crutches toward the battle ground. He was small and al- though his crutches were impediments to his progress he soon reached the inside of the ground, guided by that unseen hand. He searched along the walls diligently for his father. He dared not call lest he should be heard and killed as a spy. At last he could go no farther and sinking down in a corner cried softly to himself. But only for a moment, for Bossuet, like all boys, hated tears and he resolutely brushed them away. At this moment his heart stood still with terror. What was that noise? He listened. A shot rang out and all was still again. When Bossuet had quieted his fears he heard again a whisper cry. He fears he he rd again a whispered cry. He drew nearer the sound, and then, his heart failing him, he backed away from it in fear. Suppose it were an Englishman ! The parched cry came again more loud; “Bossuet, come!” Bossuet’s heart leaped and he made his way as quickly as possi- ble to his father’s side. “Water!” Where could he get a drop of water? His father was dying of thirst. Peering through the darkness to which his eyes had now become accustomed he saw indistinctly a soldier lying not ten feet away drinking from a flask. He must get the water. He crept cautiously to- ward the Englishman and stealing upon him quickly snatched it from his hands. The man cried out, a shot came hurtling through the air and struck Bossuet’s de- formed limb. He staggered and fell faint- ing, but still mindful of his purpose, c;-ep f painfully to his father’s side and held the water to his parched lips. The last drops gone, the man breathed a sigh of relief and turned his head to em- brace his brave son. At that instant little Bossuet, overcome by pain and faintness, sank forward upon the breast of his par- ent and died quietly. A few years later at the edge of a for- est in Hugomont, in a tiny cottage, there sits alone an old man, in the clothes of a soldier. His snow-white hair falls down upon his shoulders. His ears are grown deaf with listening for his son’s song; his eyes are grown dim with tears and with watching for his child’s bright face. But Providence, or Fate, have given the lame hero a supreme dawn, have drawn him from the supreme shadow of pain into a haven of rest and happiness. So while the old father sits quietly, only waiting the call of that Holy Monarch to summon him, .lot to battle as before, but to a glorious home where no mortal hand can snatch his happiness from hinj. LUCY LEE, 1922. 12

Page 18 text:

JUNE The month of June is here again Arrayed in shimmering green And as we stroll o’er dusty roads Gay blossoms can be seen A-nodding in the gentle breeze. With faces bright and cheery To welcome each and every one The sprightly and the weary. Within a nest in a treetop high Three birdlets, snug and warm, Are fed by a busy mother bird And kept from every harm. The father bird, in coat of red; Sings sweetly, “Cheer, oh Cheer!” His golden throat sends out the words For one and all to hear. Yes, June is here! Let all be glad And heed the robin’s song; Go smiling through the sunny days, For the right stand true and strong. For sunny days bring sunny smiles And sunny smiles bring cheer. While each and all of us agree June’s the best time of the year. RICHARD RALPH, 1921. DIFFICULTIES IN ENGLISH What shall I write about? Poems aren’t in my line, But I’ll have to write one, Or the teacher’ll give me mine. I don’t want my walking ticket! I want a poem instead ! If I worry much more about it I’ll have a pain in my head! I wait for an inspiration, Which doesn’t seem to come. While I sit and wonder and wonder My lesson should be done ! The trouble that teacher’s causing! If she knew how it bothered us, I wonder if she’d not relent And not cause such a terrible fuss? Well — I’ll just have to face her. And receive my walking card. Why does that English teacher Give lessons so awfully hard? EMMA HALEY, 1921. THE IPSWICH RIVER 0 this is the winding Ipswich river, Flowing slowly down to the sea, Rising up in the Topsfield marshes, Ever widening on its way ’Til it disappears in the roaring sea. At first it is a narrow brook, Winding through the meadows, And through the marshes Then as it speeds on its hastening way Larger it grows Until at length With a final roar and resounding crash Over the dam it surges onto the sharp rocks below. Thence it rushes under stone bridges ’Til reaching the marshes it spreads itself Into creeks and inlets Until it becomes A maze of intricate channels. Flowing slowly along Past the white beach Out to the sea. RICHARD HODGKINS, 1921. 14