Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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Literary ROMANY CAMPFIRE Tall, dark pines tower above the little clearing in the woods, their lofty pinnacles silhouetted sharply against the pale rosy glow of the setting sun. It is already dusk in the deep forest. There in the clear- ing crackles a great campfire. Its bright leaping flames send dancing shadows into the dark depths of the woods, and upon the motley group of gayly-clad gypsies who are seated about it in a circle. The flames glint on golden hoops in dusky ears, and put gleams of light into black eyes shadowed by long lashes. The gaudy raiments of red and yellow are softened by the firelight, which strikes on deep- frjjg-ned shawls, billowy skirts, and bearded lips. Suddenly the shrill chatter about the fire ceases, for from the group of battered wagons at the edge of the forest, a man has come, — a gypsy whose long, raven-black hair hangs straight to his shoulders. His attire is simple — an old red shirt and dark trousers, — it is his face which holds attention. Eyes like black coals shine from beneath bushy eyebrows, but never a smile twitches his thin lips or wrinkles his dusky cheeks. From under his arm he takes an age-old violin and begins to play. All eyes are upon him. Softly he plays at first, — the sweet, mellow notes have a poig- nant sadness that touches the heart as only the voice of a violin can. Into the eyes of the group about the fire there comes a touch of melon- choly and longing — they are think- ing of other days and other times. Then the music quickens percepti- bly — the time changes — there is a swing to the shrill sweetness of the melody, and as quickly the faces of the gypsies lighten up with joy. Then — from the circle about the fire a gypsy girl arises ; like a bright tulip in the breeze, she sways lightly,keeping time with the gay melody of the violin. The dark- eyed violinist is forgotten, but he plays on and on, the measures of the dance seem to skip from be- neath his supple fingers. Faster and faster the dancer whirls, her skirt billowing out; her arms now above her head, — now extended gracefully in the movement of the dance. With one last whirl, she sinks breathless into her place, dark eyes shining with the applause of her companions. The voice of the violin ceases. The fire crackles and snaps. Dorothy Dunn, ’29 FATALITY Mecca, the shrine of the East, was filled with pilgrims, young and old. The busy streets were bustling with eager crowds and the sounds of merchants bartering or calling their wares filled the town. But outside, nearer the foothills, was a party of campers clustered about a small fire. The air was gray with approaching night but over in the west there was a hazy band of gold and rose that seemed to ward off swift darkness. An atmosphere of mystery and expectancy surround- ed the group for Abhurda, a tall, sturdy Arabic guide was about to tell a story. “Listen,” he said in a soft, low drawl, “and I shall tell you the se- cret of the magic oasis where we go tomorrow. Lon g, long ago, ages before my grandfather lived, an old prospector set out for the mystic oasis — they called it mystic then — accompanied by his son, a lad of perhaps twenty. The way was plain because it was the track of the caravans. But nature can change everything and that same day a dread sand storm occurred and besides filling up the water 5

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Editorial Like pilgrims on the Road of Life, we have reached a mile- stone, a point which marks a degree of achievement in our journey. Here we must face a new future, one in which we strike out for ourselves, sometimes separated from friends and class- mates, oftentimes alone among strangers. Four years can cement strong friendships, and as we part at graduation, we cannot help a feeling of sadness, though we know we are not parting forever. After graduation, diploma in hand, we set out, while before us in a rosy vista we visualize our goal in life, our fond hope, our achieve- ment. What is a life which is aim- less, which snatches at any oppor- tunity in pathetic hope, which does not know its own mind ? A goal in life is necessary to happiness. Though perhaps we may never reach this goal, at least we have worked for it, and even though we fail to realize our dreams and hopes of success, at least we have tried. First of all, we must know our- selves and be satisfied that our goal in life is one that we can reach. Everyone is different from every- one else, and every personality dif- fers. If we have a talent, a gift, or an opportunity by which we can serve our fellow-men, our goal in life should be to develop this talent, that we may find true happiness through serving others. Lives which serve are always happy and satis- fied. while those which seek selfish goals end in misery. So may we live, and in death know that we have sought the true ideal. CUB STAFF 1929 - 1930 Editor-in-chief, Mary Henderson; Business Manager, Edward Dolan; Literary Editors, Gladys Durham, Phillis Haggerty, Winifred Austin ; Social Editor, Mary Brennan ; Alumni Edi- itor, Gretchen Lovell; Class Reporters, ’30 Virginia Smith, ’31 Norma Tozer, ’32 Frances Ames, ’33 to be elected in September; Athletic Editor, Edith Richardson; Art Editor, Chester Dunn; Exchange Editor, Mary Stone; Joke Editor, Sumner Raymond. Varsity Club Officers The Varsity Club Officers for 1929-1930 are as follows: President, Melvin Haley; Vice President, Paul Callahan; Sec- retary, Harry Munro; Treasurer, Joseph Saroka. 4

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holes, it utterly wiped out the beat- en path. P or six clays the old man and his boy wandered about the desert, hopelessly lost. Relief came only at nightfall and then often- times there was little or no water to cool their parched mouths. “And then came August. As you all know, August is the worst month of the year. It bring that fatal intolerable heat which dries up all the water, and strikes a man down with its intenseness. The faint breeze serves only to increase the heat, and it seems as if the very rocks and sand would burst into dame. This was what these two lost people had to face. But human nature cannot endure all things and slowly but steadily they weakened. Each morning the poor father urged his son to leave him and each time the young man refused to save him- self, and he stayed with the old prospector. “But at last the inevitable day came when, his strength spent, the old man sank in the sand, too ex- hausted to keep on. ' Go on, ' he said, ‘climb the dune and see if you can find any landmark. ' The boy did as he was bid. Hopelessly crawling to the top of the hill, he scanned the horizon with eyes blinded by the heat. Suddenly he caught his breath with a gasp. There, only a few miles away, stretched out on the edge of the desert, was the mystic oasis, with its cool green palms rising loftily above the glorious peace of a rip- pling brook. “ ‘We ' re safe, safe, ' cried the boy as, trembling with gratitude he rushed back to his father. But the old man was safe beyond all earthly comfort. He was safe in the arms of the divine Protector; he had passed through the gate of human sufferings, straight to the oasis of heaven. “Maddened by grief and suffer- ing the boy kept shouting the words, ‘we ' re safe, safe. ' In vain did he try to raise his father; in vain did he struggle with him, and shake him. At last he staggered back into the fatal desert whence he had come. When the sun sank into the purple sands, a lone, bent figure, silent with bowed head, stood clearly outlined against the crimson horizon; and far in the dis- tance echoed the words ‘safe, safe, safe. ' “And even to this day, the sands beyond the magic oasis send back the long, quivering call, ‘safe, safe, safe, safe. ' The low vice ceased, and once more silence fell upon the little band of travellers. A low, murmur- ing wind rustled the leaves on the trees, and the gurgling brook slip- ped restlessly around the pebbles. Darkness had fallen, but over in the west, hanging low over the dusky sands, a single star quivered and glittered-the torch of the guar- dian angel. Barbara Damon, ' 29 CELESTIAL RADIANCE The moon rises slowly from the eastern mist; Silently she glides through the gray-blue vapor. Where rosy clouds glowed in splen- dor. And where now they blow in bil- lows under the Zephyrs, ' dainty finger tips. Quietly she slips over hill and dale ; And sheds soft radiance into every window ; Thus, while she trips lightly. The waters of the mighty ocean rage, or grow calm. Barbara Damon, ' 29 THE MUNDULLAH PEARL The room was large and bare, and the pink marble walls were beautifully inlaid with jade, car- nelian, and beaten gold. The high 6