Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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Literary On the Life and Death of An English Essay “TN the light of the setting sun the little house took on a delicate glow. Its windowpanes reflected the orange light of the sunset, and each one became a small lantern beaming through the dusk. Around the tiny green door, tall bushes of lilacs nodded slowly in the evening breeze, bending to look at their re- flection in the shiny knocker; while across the lake last bird calls were echoing, seeming to lull the little house to sleep content with its memories . . .” At this point my power of inven- tion failed, and I too felt like fall- ing asleep. It’s a dreadful thing to have a mind which is absolutely blank. To be sure, the setting was all arranged and a good story should have been developed, but somehow I could get no further. Therefore, I pronounced my story dead, and duly proceeded to bury it. An essay usually starts life at the suggestion of a teacher, but there have been rare occasions when a pupil has done the amazing thing and written one on impulse. The first thing necessary for success is a theme, and for some strange reason all themes seem to find a hiding- place at this particular moment, and it requires little less than a brain storm to discover them. At last one is found, — purely by accident I assure you — and we hastily pull the poor little thing to light and pro- ceed to analyze and develop it. This is indeed a long hard process. It consists of a network of paths lead- ing up to the main idea, and these paths are most distracting; in fact one is often so completely lost in their depths that it is necessary to hurry out as quickly as possible, still dragging the little theme by one idea. When the weather is fair or something of particular interest at- tracts us, this network of paths seems to increase tremendously. Nevertheless, these disturbing fac- tors can be overcome with practice and will power. Eventually you feel that you are reaching the climax when suddenly the theme, which was never very strong, begins to show signs of great weakness. After this, your dis- couragement is only exceeded by your anger. Although you give the theme a few last tugs, it dies slowly but surely. When you realize the end is near, you make one last des- perate effort to end the essay on half an idea. Sometimes this works ; most of the time it doesn’t. Yes, writing an essay requires one full brain working overtime — a rarity indeed. Some of my essays have gained recognition, although 15

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Editorial TTAVING completed our second year in the Ipswich High School, we are firmly convinced that it has been of great value to us all. We have enjoyed increased freedom and engaged in more social activi- ties. We have witnessed the birth of a new school spirit, and we have grown to accept and appreciate the responsibilities which have been shifted from teacher to pupil. Taking advantage of the in- creased facilities, we have made progress in at least one field entire- ly new to this school, viz. — art. An art class working with water colors, pen and ink, and oil paints has been started in the manual training building. The small investment made has been a great credit to the school and has, as well, developed the talent of the members of the class. The threat to remove baseball from the list of athletics served only to stimulate additional interest in the game. Basketball has grown from its unpretentious beginning two years ago, until now it is defi- nitely a major sport. The team played a highly successful inter- scholastic season, every game being staunchly supported. The sports, however, will be discussed in their proper category. The distinction which this class claims is being the first in the his- tory of Ipswich schools to graduate in caps and gowns. Whether or not we are the last remains to be seen. And now after covering some of the interesting developments of our last year in high school, it is fitting that we should close with a few thoughts of the future. Although the outlook at present is none too promising, we should not feel handi- capped by the existing obstacles. Just as the king’s son in Edward Rowland Sill’s “Opportunity” won the battle with a broken sword, so may we conquer everything by mak- ing the most of each opportunity. It is the spirit in which difficulties are faced which matters, for “the highest success crowns those who work in the highest spirit, and the supremest failure confronts those who work in the worst spirit.” 14

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the majority have been buried with worn-out ideas. Their ghosts haunt me still. In fact my brain is often a panorama of — “The Value of Edu- cation, ” “A Study of Cause and Effect,” “Superstition and Coinci- dence” — and many other such dis- turbing visions calling out in half finished sentences that I murdered them. However, I’ve finally become used to them, and now they only lull me to sleep, content with my memories. U. M. Lombard, ’38. MY LIST OF LOVELY THINGS I love the sky with white clouds rolling ; Billowy waves of sea foam flowing ; Apple blossoms opening free ; Birds twittering in a tree ; Water lilies shyly peeping Out from their cool place of keeping ; The smell of rising smoke at twilight, Flowers opening in early sunlight, Misty shadows, eerily creeping; The water of the swamp, seeping Through green and marshy grasses ; The smell of sea across the marshes. New mown hay pitched to the left, Shimmering satin, exciting and soft, Ancient books, mysterious, alluring ; Hexagons in tiled flooring. Bushes glistening with the dew, Queer shaped rocks ; roads, too. These from life’s bountiful offerings I write in my list of lovely things. Betty Orsini, ’39. CALL OF AUTUMN There’s a certain tinge in Autumn That is smelt in bur ning leaves, And you see it, oh ! so often, In the brilliant, burning trees. Though you hear it in the distance In the wild geese’s haunting call, It is something that’s within you That you can’t control at all. It’s a surging, restless, longing To be up and roam away, Where the trees are in a riot In the wild free breeze all day, Where the air is clear and sparkling Where the mountains rise in mist, And your heart is full within you In the land that God has kissed. Barbara Knowles, ’39. JUNE NIGHT The moon was a silver face, Peeping through a misty cloud. Leaves were lace. The moon was a silver face. Stars were lanterns hung in space. White blossoms in the dusky garden before the night wind bowed. The moon was a silver face, Peeping through a misty cloud. Ursula M. Lombard, ’38. 16