Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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LITERARY Idyll I NTO the land of the Sunset — far away — he drifted until his cloud boat came to rest on the golden shore. With timid feet he trod the soft radh ance of the soil. Above him the sky was deepening into. the evening blue. There was no wind, but a cool mysterious atmosphere bathed him in its dew. “ ’Tis .heaven,” he whispered, filled with awe. Over the amber field of silence a silver chariot swept, drawn by gray horses with trappings of black and silver. And in the chariot — wonder of all wonders — a beautiful maiden. Beautiful beyond words. Hair like mkb night, eyes like stars, lips like coral, and skin like the virgin petal of a half ope’d rose. The chariot came to rest beside him swaying in the air. The maiden stretched a cool soft hand to him, and in a dream he found himself beside her. “Who are you?” he whispered. “I am Evening. Come with me, for your cloud boat has drifted away and this land is fading beneath my touch. Come with me.” The horses drifted onward noiselessly and with ease as on the wind. He was at peace. A breeze ran cool fingers through his hair and closed his eyes with a gentle touch. Awakening he found himself in Twilight and the maiden bending over him. Fragrance of the sleeping world breathed from her dusky hair. “Mother Darkness waits,” she said, “and I must go.” “You will leave me? I shall never see you more? Oh, leave me not in darkness, Leave me not in woe, Take me with you, Evening, Wherever you may go!” A sad smile crossed her features and dimmed the starry eyes. “You are mortal — I, a goddess. We must part — but do not fear! Every evening — when the Sun is sinking low I shall meet you as tonight — but I must go!” With a cool kiss on his forehead she was gone. He was standing in a meadow. Night was on the world, but a fire in his heart, burning with a silver flame, told him that forever after, Evening would be the same. He could quench his burning sorrow — wash his woe away — in the calm, sweet dew of Evening — at the close of every day. — Gertrude Berry, ’ 32 . Wings of the Night T HE evening sun had shot its last beams of sunlight across a small valley nestled among the foothills. Dusk was slowly covering the hills, when Martin Purington hurried his pack mules down the winding trail to a small cabin at the further end of the valley. June had arrived, and the entire valley was broken out in a profusion of wild flowers and blossoms. The orchard of wild cherry trees behind the cabin was in blossom, and sweet incense drifted upon the warm summer breezes, making the air fragrant with a delightful 13

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EDITORIAL A T this time of year there are many youths who will have received either part or all of the formal ' education with which they are going to meet life. In a few years these same youths will he taking the places of the men and women of today and will carry on the affairs of the nation. May they profit by the mistakes that other people have made. Although this is one of the most critical times in history, it is necessary that the new graduates find their places in the world. In doing this their education is their best asset. By means of this education they may be able not only to lift this depression but even to forestall another by leaving valu ' able information to their successors. And they can only gather this informa tion by using their intelligence and the knowledge which they have gained in schools. Let us hope that as these youths realise the value of their edu- cation, they will continue to encourage progress of it everywhere. Cub Staff, 1932- 1933 Editor ' in ' Chief Robert Clogston, ’33 Business Manager Ervin Langmaid, ’33 Literary Editors Eleanor Mitchell, ’33; Robert Laite, ’35; Edward Rhodes, ’34 Helen Kozeneska, ’33; Paul Parker, ’34 John Alexander, ’34 Alumni Editor Margaret McLeod, ’33 Social Editors Beatrice Austin, ’33; Thelma Davis, ’33 Athletic Editors Lazarus Lazaropoulos, ’33; Peter Retales, ’33 Class Reporters Anne Patch, ’33; Theodora Burbank, ’34; Barbara Schofield, ’35 36 Exchange Editor Sylvia Todd, ’33 Art Editor To be announced Jo e Editor George Blodgett, ’33 Typists Dorothy Miller, ’33; Margaret Hamm, ’33 12

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odor that tilled one with an inexpressible feeling — a warmth, a joy, a supreme delight in life and all that existed. Wearily the traveler, a tall well built man of steel-grey eyes and dark hair, with a face that betrayed every passing emotion, unpacked the animals and turned them loose in a small corral. After washing in the cold stream at the end of the corral, he entered the cabin, which, although roughly made and enormous in proportions from the outward appearances, was decidedly different inside. A small cozy kitchen was at one end of the cabin, and three large rooms, — a parlor, library, and a bed room, — composed the rest of the structure. As Martin entered, he was greeted by a grinning negro, who was bending over the kitchen stove preparing the evening meal. “Sam, I’m so hungry I could eat nails and like it, 11 exclaimed Martin cheerfully. “Yas’m, Mr. Martin, I’ll have your supper in no time.” Over the supper table that evening Martin checked with Sam the list of supplies he had brought from town and then retired to the library to smoke his evening pipe before the fire. The library was an interesting room. The dark oak paneling of the walls gave the room an air of dignity, and solitude added to the general quietude of the room. Book cases of a deep mahogany stain lined the room on all sides, and by the mellow light of a beautiful glass chandelier, one could see in the distant corner of the room on a small trophy table several silver cups, trophies of art contests. Above the f ireplace gazing complacently down at Martin, hung a life-sized painting of “Boy Blue.” The fire burnt low, and at length Martin retired to his room. To the enquiries of Sam he replied, “Wake me at dawn,” and piled into bed. Light was just beginning to appear above the eastern horizon when Sam shook his master by the shoulder. In an instant Martin was on his feet. Pulling on his robe he entered the library, and approaching the bay window, he drew aside the heavy curtain. The sun, chasing the lingering shadows before it, was rising slowdy above the wooded hills. “Wings,” the artist mused, “Wings of the morning,” and he set his easel by his side. Rapidly and delicately he worked, his brushes transplanting onto canvas, flaming, brilliant colors blending into soft, delicate tinges of lavender and cool shadows. Beautiful wings of color flowed from the end of his brush, and nature was captured at the moment, at dawn, when everything seems the most inspiring. “Breakfast am ready, boss,” Sam called as he heard his master leaving the library. “A masterpiece, Sam,” Martin cried as he seated himself at the table. “I certainly is glad, suh; perhaps we leave this no account place now.” “Perhaps, Sam,” and Martin continued his breakfast. That summer art critics, as well as the countless number of people that gazed at “Wings of the Morning” in the great art gallery of New York, were astounded and hailed it as a masterpiece. Then came the year 1917 and the World War, and Martin left for France with over two million doughboys. Bloodshed, screaming shells, reeking corpses, his dying companions, and the countless horrors that war carries with it, terrified Martin and months 14