Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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to the high pitched peeping of his cohorts. “Move along, bud !” said the uni- formed officer. “You’ve been stand- in’ here too long.” The boy fumbled nervously for a cigarette as he pushed off through the crowd. Won- der if that frog was still there ? He must write and ask Mom. He had- n’t written for so long, and she’d be wondering! Gee, it would be swell to go home ! Priscilla Bailey, ’37. ijC TODAY I STOPPED Today I stopped and gazed about The paths I’ve trod before I never noticed until now What used to be a bore. Samuel Lombard, ’38. ❖ CRICKET’S CRIES All Crickets chirp : I wonder why? There must be reason Why they cry. But I must sleep. Let cries forego ! (They’re pleasant tunes To my mind though.) Samuel Lombard, ’38. I :5: ❖ ❖ If I had never known The whispering of the summer breeze Through slender swaying woodland trees Or meadows freshly mown. If I had chanced to miss The golden brilliance of autumn leaves. The moonlight shimmering through the trees. Or mornings sunny kiss. If I had never seen The snow-capped mountains’ hazy blue. Or violets jeweled bright with dew, Or a rippling stream. If I had never heard A roar of thunder from heaven above. The gentle cooing of a dove, Or a glad tuneful bird. Then would my soul be dead. No gladness heralding the day No beauty known along life’s way. My songs unsung, my prayer un- said. Ann Mansfield, ’39. :i: ijJ Hs PLOTTING I was reading Carlyle, But I fell to day-dreaming. Excellent his style — I was reading Carlyle, But a cloud used its guile. And all nature was scheming. I was reading Carlyle, But I fell to day-dreaming. Jj: WHITE SUNDAY Apple trees. Blush-pink against a delphinium sky; A honey-laden breeze. Apple trees. Small motors of bees. First flight of a yellow butterfly. Apple trees. Blush-pink against a delphinium sky. Priscilla Bailey, ’37. 16

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The outlook is much brighter for us, too, as we go out into the world to look for occupation, or as we con- tinue on to higher education. We feel more optimistic about making a place, a beginning for ourselves in the world. At the end of four happy, sheltered years we face a new dawn and stand together for the last time on the threshhold of new adventure and discovery. Al- though we can not help feeling some sadness at leaving old friends to embark on vast uncharted seas of our future lives, we are all eager to start searching for our individual Holy Grails, striving for what we desire most in life. Thus we ask Fate to smile kindly on us all and to help us along the way. LITERARY. Bridges A HUGE arc of cold gray steel spans the oily, murky waters of the large river. Steel girders out- line themselves against a lighter gray sky like huge emaciated skele- tons through the bones of which, like ants or large beetles, crawl trucks, wagons, and shiny automo- biles in an endless line. People, in- tent on their business in the huge world of sky scrapers beyond, hur- ry by. In quiet back-washes of the crowd, a few people stand, watch- ing the never-ending waters flow past below, bearing with them tra- ces of all the life of the huge city. A street-cleaner in dirtywhite tries vainly to remove some of the refuse from street and side walk, but the stone remains gray, spotted, filthy. A newsboy cries of sordid murder. A lumbering truck goes by, the driver shouting profanely. A tired shop girl gazes at the mink-clad debutante in the costly limousine and almost steps on a poor, blind beggar selling pencils on the side- walk. A swarthy Italian pushes a flower-cart by, the bright jonquils and sweet violets lending a note of color and freshness to the dull gray- ness and sooty odor of the city, and a tired boy thinks of a quiet farm house and the sweet-peas in his mother’s garden. Sweet peas, and father coming home across the little wooden bridge. He could almost hear now the rumble of the ancient timbers as someone approached. The little brook trickled peacefully down through the green meadow — he had sat there so often as a boy, watching the water change from golden as it flowed over the sand to dark brown in the depths. The bright sun shone warmly down and red-winged blackbirds kept up their sweet trilling all through the gold- en hours of the morning. Coming across the bridge at twilight with a load of hay, he could remember the sweet smells of dried grass and new earth and the tinkling of Betsey’s bell as she came in from pasture. The evening star glittered in the rosy afterglov , and an old bullfrog began his slo v monotonous chant 15

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A TRIOLET The hillsides are green For springtime has come A bluebird is seen where The hillsides are green ; Over all lies a lush green sheen, Where pin points of flowers grow. The hillsides are green, For springtime has come. Charlotte Curtis, ’37. GRADUATION ESSAYS. Our Debt to Horace Mann by Margaret Hubbard N early one hundred years ago this evening, on June 30, 1837, Horace Mann, Speaker of the House of Representatives in Boston, ac- cepted the post of Secretary of the newly created Board of Education in Massachusetts. He held this po- sition for eleven short years and in that time accomplished deeds and instituted reforms which caused him to be gratefully remembered and honored to-day as America’s first pioneer in the cause of good public school education. Until 1837, the condition of the public schools in Massachusetts, al- though not actually appalling, was extremely poor when judged by our standards and rather low when judged by the standards of those times, especially when we realize that New England was even then considered the center of learning in the United States. The main obsta- cle to fair and liberal teaching was the narrowness, pettiness, and ig- norance of the teachers. Often they were so untrained and underpaid that they knew scarcely more than their pupils. Their textbooks were old, and their methods of teaching were often out of date. In addition. teachers at that time also, especial- ly in rural districts, though serving at a great sacrifice of money and social prestige, were scorned and looked down upon by members of other professions and by society in general. Such a condition obviously did not redound to the advantage of the pupils under their supervi- sion. The buildings, which constituted another source of offense in early nineteenth century education, were unventilated, unsafe, dirty, and al- most without light except for a few dingy windows. It is said that the floors of barns at that time were washed more frequently than those of schoolrooms. Furthermore, the management of the schools was en- tirely under the control of the local trustees who very often allowed their personal feelings, their greed for gain, and their narrow religious sectarianism to get the better of all good educational instincts. Everyone who could afford to sent his children to private schools. Those who were poor, of course, had to patronize public schools but looked upon them as a burden to be borne none too willingly. The chil- dren went because they had to, not because they were interested, for