Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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lire, and star shells burnt paths of red scorching fire across the blackened sky. The negro stood at his master ' s side, gazing in awe at the painting before him. Slowly Martin dipped his brush and wrote, “Wings of the Night. —Robert Laite, ’35. Storm Dreams W HITE fingers of fine snow flash ghost-like across the blackness of the road. Cars like burned-out comets, with long white tails, fly noise- lessly by. Inside my car there is comparative comfort — of the chilly sort. The satisfied and satisfying hum of the motor lulls me into semi-consciousness. The white dust grows deeper — the warm eyes of houses look like square patches of yellow on the snow. How good is a fire and friends, and warmth of body and soul within four well-beloved walls! Thank God every wanderer finds a home sometime — somewhere. As the dream grows, the hands guide the wheel instinctively. Mechan- ically the foot seeks the brake and the vision, like a vivacious spirit, goes leaping and bounding from past to future, ignoring the present. Old loves are remembered. Old snatches of old songs that once had poignant meanings come welling up from the heart and are sometimes actually expressed and sometimes lost in the throb and purr of the motor. Even sadness when it is passed is sweet. Beautiful day dreams! Thank God we do not truly expect you to be realized as we conceive you. The joy of fullfillment would be too great for us to bear. And so I dream as the snow sifts in through unseen and unsuspected crevices, and the foot grows numb upon the accelerator, and the car sweeps on, leaving eddies of white mist upon the black of the road and my dreams awaiting realization. — Gertrude Berry, ' 32. 16

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later he lay, a raving maniac, in a little Red Cross hospital in France. November, 1918. Martin, a shell-shocked victim, returned home — home to the big, white, lonely house and Sam, in the suburbs of New York. The noise of the city confused and excited him, his mouth twitched, his eyes opened and shut rapidly, and his whole body trembled at the slightest sound. One night Dr. King frowned sternly as he questioned Martin. “Get away from the city, 11 he advised at length. “Go anywhere, but get away from this confusion.” “Yes, Doctor,” Martin spoke slowly, “I have decided to go back to my old camp — back to the ' Wings of the Morning. 1 11 He laughed shrilly, and looked down at his long, white hands, the only part of his body he seemed able to control. Twisting his slender fingers, he stared into the night. At the door the doctor met Sam and drew him aside. ' Sam,” he said gravely, “keep an eye on your master; take care of him. It will be some time before he will be his old self again.” “Yas suh, deed I will, suh,” assured Sam trying vainly to check the tears that rolled down his dusky face. June found Martin once more at the old cabin surrounded by the green- ness of the valley. Slowly he was gaining possession of his faculties, but still there was something lacking, something lost perhaps in France. Now and then he would dabble in his paints, while Sam made the monthly trips to the town of Kentsville for supplies. It was becoming a familiar sight to see the faith- ful negro slouching along the trail, the mules before him. Dusk was falling when Sam drove the mules into the corral after one of these trips. Overhead dark storm clouds were forming. The wind whistled mournfully among the tall pines. Sam entered the cabin as thunder heralded the approaching storm. Lightning flashed and tore ragged streaks across the storm-swept sky. A giant pine toppled and crashed to earth. Thunder rumbled in the distant hills. Sam found his master in the library sitting near the bay window. The curtain was drawn back; his easel and brushes were by his side. “Sam,” he spoke hoarsely- “Yas suh.” “It — it’s France.” “No suh, no suh,” Sam spoke cheerfully, “just an old discountless storm, and its gonna rain soon,” and he left the cabin to prepare the evening meal Martin stared long down the slopes of the valley, and who can tell what he pictured there, as he sat scarcely hearing the wind tearing ferociously at the eaves of the cabin. Suddenly he seized his brushes, set his easel before him, and began to paint not only the storm -swept scene before him, but more. His face was drawn and haggard. The brush darted over the canvas, — he was living and fighting the battle over again, but with brushes. Then came the rain, and black fingers groped through the room, filling it with night’s dark shadows. The painting was complete, but the artist was not in raptures. He was pale, and his ghastly features seemed to have caught wrinkles in the last few hours that had not been there before. The battle field lay before him. Night was fast approaching. The dead and wounded covered the slope of No Man’s Land. Lightning rent the sky, giant trees toppled, machine guns spit green 15

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Song of the Stream I know a deep and cooling spring That trickles away, such a little thing, Rippling and dancing o’er the stones With a hundred melodious soothing tones; Stopping a moment, but ne’er to abide; ’Neath the out ' flung roots of some giant tree, Cooled in some shadowy deeps may be, Warmed by a dance o’er a sunny rock ’Till it murmurs in fairy or elfin talk; Leaping from rock to rock below, Seeking a level where it may flow, Leisurely twisting and winding along, Hearing and answering the thrush’s song, Languidly breathing the flowered air, Whispering low in the rushes there, Broadened and deepened all along By numberless brooklets that join the throng, Each seeking each in close embrace; At length from the distance a murmur grows, Stilling the murmuring stream that flows, To silence as it nears the sea, And loses itself in eternity. — Robert Clogston, ’33. Of Dearest Worth ' J ' HESE are the things I hold of dearest worth : Light of the western sky With long white clouds floating by. The white ' winged bird in its flight, And the peace and solitude of night. The mysterious quiet of the hills, And the passing murmur of little rills. The catching sound of drops of rain Beating upon the window pane. The white ' Capped waves upon the sea, And the tall splendor of the tree, The twilight and the darkening blue, And the wonder that such things are true. — Gertrude Berry, ’32. 17