Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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who had risked their lives with me were waiting. As I entered, they fumbled with the chin straps of their sou’westers and, as one man, removed them from their heads. I stood gravely facing them and then stepped over and removed my head- gear too.” “What were you doing, sir?” T asked, “Praying?” I felt like a fool when Pd said it, because it savored too much of the dramatic. The Skipper sensed it too, for he laughed soft of self-consciously and said : “Naw, we had just met a guy that we had some respect for, and we were letting him know.” English By Sylvia Ferguson N OTHING is more beautiful or restful than to go to the theatre and sit back in the comfortable seats, forgetting for two or three hours the worries of the outside world. Many times we go into the thea- ter with minds in a turmoil, minds hungering for some relief. While waiting for the program to begin, we almost go to sleep. Everything is peaceful in the auditorium ; the ushers seem to glide up and down the heavily carpeted aisles on magic feet. The spirit of restfulness grips everyone. Softly, from far away the sound of beautiful music comes to our ears, and as it grows louder, we wake from our reverie to see the whole orchestra rising slowly as it plays upon an especially construct- ed platform. Now we are fully awake and thoroughly enjoy the music. Then, all too soon, it dies way, slowly and softly, as it came, while in keeping with its beautiful strains we breath- lessly watch the shimmering silk and satin curtains part and before our eyes is a fairyland of beauty, the masterpiece of some director. You may wonder what this has to do with English. Perhaps you will agree when I tell how it symbolizes the study of English to me. We study the masterpieces of Milton, Shakespeare, Burns, Words- worth, Shelley, Keats, and many others. We go to our classrooms to study and discuss them, and not one of us has the least idea of the true interpretation of the poem. After a few of the well chosen questions that the teacher asks have reached us, we wake from our rev- erie to find that the shimmering cur- tains of intelligent understanding have parted, and we have before us a masterpiece which confirms the line, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” 17

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while things went along all right; • ,ut when that old northeaster really got ablowing, we felt it and felt it plenty. Loaded down with machin- ery as she was, the “Wycoff” was taking a lot of punishment. Every time one of those heavy seas hit her side, she had to stop and shake off the effects of its blow like a punch-drunk fighter. Every time the waves rolled her stern out of water, the engines raced like mad, and she shook from stem to stern. Every- thing on deck not lashed down was washed overboard. It was almost impossible to cross the deck from the fo’castle hatch to the bridge, f didn’t think she would stand that terrible battering long, but for ten weary hours we three mates and four helmsmen held her on her course. “We were all watching a big wave hit the side when we heard a crack like the sail of a square rig- ger makes when it explodes in a heavy gale of wind. Rushing to the aft windows of the wheel house, we saw the cargo derrick, that great tall mass of steel and wood, laden with its booms and gear trailing over the lee side broken off barely five feet above the deck. The stern began to sink and the bow to rise. High into the howling wind it went, and the sea began to wash freely over the after deck. She swung swiftly off her course. The First and the Second jumped to hel p the men at the wheel but it was no use. All our strength together couldn’t have pulled her back again. She wallowed deep in the trough of the sea and pitched madly over the crests. The next four seas, big fel- lows they were, smashed our boats to bits and rolled the tangled mass of derrick and rigging half off the stern. There the hoists and falls held it fast. Each new wave smashed down on us with more fury than the one before it. We either had to cut loose that derrick or go for a long visit to Davy Jones’s Locker. “Leaving one fellow at the wheel, we grabb ed the axes stationed in the wheel house for emergencies and started for the door to the deck. We just got there when another billow went over us, and after it passed, we rushed out and down to the wreckage. We hacked away madly at the ropes. The axes struck sparks from the iron deck. We sweated and strove to get that derrick loose before the next wave came. Some of the men threw away their now dulled axes and fell to with their nails and teeth. Of a sudden the First yelled ‘Hang on, for .’ “Men scurried for safety like rats. I sunk my axe into the splintered butt of the derrick and hung on grimly. An avalanche of frothy green water came rushing down on us and reached out hungry hands to tear our fingers from their holds. The flood passed ; I looked up to find all the fellows safe, but not an axe left in the whole bunch. While they ran for the bridge, I hacked away frantically at what remaining ropes I could see. Fairly heaving mv blunted axe at the last strand, I turned and ran for the bridge. I reached it just in time to turn and see the water wash away the last of the broken derrick. I ascended to the wheel house, where the men 16

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Dawn By Mary Bakula The world lies hushed in whiteness, Beneath glittering stars and a silver moon ; Trees stand stately, white and bare, Waiting for dawn to come soon. Trees and branches rustle softly; Far in the east faint lights quiver, Waiting to wake the sleeping sun, A restless wind waits by the river. A brave rooster crows in the stillness Waking the meadow larks in the lea ; A soft pink light floods the leaden skies As the sun pokes a sleepy head from the sea. Slowly he climbs up flushing skies. Sending his sunbeams to every nook, Watching the world blink from the brightness And birds singing by the silvery brook. Spring By Helen Saunders The buds from their beds will soon arise, The trees will stretch and open their eyes, And the birds in the meadows will begin to sing, It’s Spring! It’s Spring! Up will shoot flowers from beds in the snow, Come to enchant us, their beauty to show, And the children’s voices will gaily ring, It’s Spring! It’s Spring! Seasons By Sylvia Ferguson An angel spilled God’s paints — An Autumn day, A little child from Paradise — Purity of Winter ' s day, The overture to Life — Our Springtime, The joy of living — A Summer season. 18