Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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written and rewritten, in my mind in the path of many a night’s ramble. We even travel back into the past where we are amused by humorous memories. But wherever we wander the path is danger- ous, for around each corner of a thought lurks a prickly worry. To avoid these rude fellows, my mind detours to thoughts of books — the most friendly paths of reflection. Thus I have found that lying awake is really delightful, for if I can. not sleep, I can at least “night”-dream. — Joyce Bousley CHOATE BRIDGE Low in the river bed the old man kneels To see his wrinkled image in the flow Of crinkling, blackish water-whirls below ; The stores are clustered at his head and heels.. How stiff and out-of-date he feels; His arching, aching back is bending low. What varied travel he’s supported, though. Hoofs, feet of Washington, and wheels. But even now when wider roads we need Than his so narrow back for modern pace E’en speedsters slacken reckless rate to heed The sturdy grandeur of his ancient face; He is our country’s patriarch alone Her oldest of arch bridges built of stone. — Ruth Wilson EALSE SPRING A crocus in March, Early March; Lifting its long neck our of the dead Grasses, Peering to see Endless, thrilling sky, A singing blue. Where once were bonds of white, A river flowing Black, black. Gurgling with joy in its throat; And one white seagull. Dazzling white Poised against liquid ebony. Green, green. The traces of grass in the field; Oh, sweet, sweet. The first Robin’s note; And bare, bare, Children ' s emancipated legs Jumping a rope; 20

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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 .

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But the next morning A buried crocus, A closed-in sky, Grey slush. Long stockings, A stiff, cold Robin. — Ruth Wilson NIGHT HAS A CLOCK OF HER OWN Night has a clock of her own With minutes of beech leaves and crickets’ wings And now and iKen a far-off owl’s cry; And the hours slither slowly away, in the darkness. But when morning approaches, Time leaps fast; For a raucus cock ' s crow Tells us at last. — Ruth Wilson 21