Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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“When the driver had started again he told me, ‘That was Lily Pons!’ Beautiful singing voices are not the only spirituelle qualities that are hidden by exterior plainness. In a little town in the Adirondacks is a shed-like build- ing where an old carpenter lives. Every day last summer I used to pass his dwelling as I walked to the spring for water. He was amusing to me at first, an old codger with whom it was inter- esting to ruminate about the weather, and I learned from him an interesting sign: “When birds fly low over the lake, it is going to rain.’’ One day I discovered that he could discuss topics other than the rain. “Do you know.’’ he said, “I was homesick v hen I first had to give up my teaching position in the city, but now I’ve come to love this country region so that I could never leave it.’’ There was a light in his eyes, a gleaming, joyful intelligence. “Have you ever thought that our Creator meant every one of us to enjoy country life?’’ I confessed, stupidly, that I hadn’t. “I am going to have some company next week,’’ he continued, — “some folks from the city. Will you help me to show them the glory of the Adiron- dacks?’’ We could all name numerous “camouflaged” souls — the hump- backed speaker who can fascinatingly recount the histories of every carillon in the United States; the schoolmate with the frayed shirt and patched trousers who we have found can paint scenes to rival those of Maxfield Par- rish. Therx:,.is another stanza to Fannie Stearns Davis’s poem “Souls” that is very appropriate to quote: “And folks, whose earth-stained looks I hate. Why may I not divine Your Souls, which must be passionate. Shining, and swift, as mine?” —Ruth Wilson ON LYING AWAKE AT NIGHT “There is an hour when leaves are still, and winds sleep on the wave; When far beneath the closing clouds the day hath found a grave; And stars that at the note of dawn begin their circling flight. Return like sun-tired birds, to seek the sable boughs of night.” W HEN this hour of night has come and all living creatures are silenced, the whole world sleeps — but me. At this hour of repose, although my body may be exhausted, my mind is lucid and active like a pert little imp, untouched by sleep, who wishes me to keep him company. This mischievous elf has compelled me to be a partner in his night ramblings ever since I first be- came acquainted with him. Since that time, my mind and I have traveled far and wide on the wings of night. We are a happy pair and accomplish wondrous deeds in the course of the night. 18

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Literary. THE SINGING FLAME “O folk who scorn my stiff gray gown. My dull and foolish face. Can ye not see my Soul flash down, A singing flame through space. ” — Fannie Stearns Davis tT was a hot June evening in Berlin 1 and the ladies in their stiff crinoline gowns fanned themselves impatiently as they waited for the evening’s concert to begin. The crickets were growing more and more intolerable as they rang so persistently. It was with great disap- pointment that at length the ladies and gentlemen saw the singer approach the platform and sit down at the piano to play. She had a plain, almost dull face and her gown was nothing to admire: prob- ably it was last year’s second best, for there was an unfaded place where the bustle had been removed. The bored ladies wished that they had attended the governor’s ball instead of complying with that homely young Hans Ander- son’s insistence that they support the “Swedish Nightingale. Nightingale, was she? Well she was home — . Suddenly Jenny Lind began to sing! She lifted her well-formed head higher and opened her lips with a smile that spread over her whole countenance. There was a joy in her eye and a grace in her body as she sang so clearly and sweetly the soaring Aria from Geor- dani’s Lost opera. As she reached the cadenza on high G, even the crickets seemed to stop their breathing to drink in the rapture of that voice — . How often we are like the self-satis- fied ladies of that concert-hall! Our eye immediately sizes up a person without waiting for the opinion of the other four senses, or of that innate spiritual sense. I cannot help but recall the experience that a friend of mine told: I was hurrying to the Grand Cen- tral Station in a taxicab. How pro- voked I was that a half-pint girl should have the gall to hail our speeding cab! I was more provoked yet v hen the driver actually stopped for her, though he knew that I was in a hurry to catch my train. Reluctantly, I moved over to give the girl room. If she had been a man, I shouldn’t have tried to seem polite. I hardly noticed her except that she had dark, stringy hair and a French ap- pearance: I kept my eyes glued to the scene of passing traffic outside of my windov . At least she told the driver to stop. I happened to notice that she alighted outside of the Metropolitan Opera House. Promptress , I thought. 17

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But it was not always like this, for at one time my hobgoblin and I were on bad terms. He tortured me with terrifying imaginings: he cared not for my tender years. Lurking in the wall next to my bed was a hand armed with dagger fingernails (a result of seeing a motion picture called “The Cat’s C law”). How I wished my bed was in the middle of the room away from the clawing hand. But there I would be near the stairway upon which some- thing, frightening in its dreadful possi- bilities, was coming — -to judge from the creak and groan of the steps. And all over my bed gloomy specters danced joyously — mocking me! There I lay, alone with the terror of the night, with only my nose unpro- tected (the bed clothes were drawn up to my nose and my pillow served as a helmet). I could hear the peaceful breathing of my sisters and envied their untroubled minds. I would block my ears to shut out such sounds and anxiously snatched at “the skirts of sleep.” At times the suspense of pending dangers would be- come too much for my equanimity, and with sudden temerity I would take a flying leap from my bed, dash across the floor, regardless of obstacles, and into my mother’s bed. Ah, night with its gaunt shadows suggestive of all name- less dreads was my enemy. Although I suffered from these gloomy accompaniments of night, I think the time I most regretted having a sleepless mind for a bedfellow was one night before Christmas. As usual, I was awake following my airy comrade as he led me from one thought to an- other. Far into the night we had stray- ed when suddenly I heard a sound near the stockings which my sisters and I had hung up for Christmas. Then I knew who was making the noise — it was Santa Clause! I was panic stricken! Steeped in the lore of childish fables, I realized that if Santa saw me awake he would leave only a bundle of sticks in my stocking. I pretended to be asleep ,and the jolly old fellow was none the wiser; for after his footsteps died away, I investigated my stocking, and could tell by its shape that riches awaited me on the morrow. However, as I grew older, my elfin mind found that it could no longer entertain me in our nocturnal wander- ings with such airy or morbid fancies; I demanded happier fare for thouht, and, being of a managerial nature, I got my way. It was then that we became such good friends, for when my mind promised to give me something pleasing to think about I was only too ready to follow his footsteps. Together my mind and I merrily pursue an erratic course. It is really incredible, the space we cover and the things we accomplish. In one night many a mile of imagined knitting have I accomplished: and if a letter should have been written during the day, im- mediately it is mentally composed, signed, and sealed before I drift into ' sleep; in fact, this very essay has been 19 .