Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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TIGER ‘43 I have forgotten the exact construc- tion of an Aztec temple I think I shall still remember them. I want to go to a Southern revival meeting, and spend New Year’s Eve in Chinatown: I want to do so many, many things just once to see what it’s like. I went to a wrestling bout not very long ago — it was one of my ex- periences. The arena was a dilapid- ated-looking building situated on a narrow, dark side street almost hid- den between Louie’s Grocery Store on one side and a questionable restaurant on the other. One might conclude from my description that the arena was not a distinguishable place, but he would be greatly mistaken. The noises consisting of loud guffaws, nasal screams, and horse laughter which drifted out to the casual pass- erby proclaimed our destination most obviously. Opening the door we were struck forcibly with a cloud of smoke so dense that I could barely perceive the crowds huddled on the bleachers surrounding the ring. Between coughs and gasps I noticed ironically a con- spicuous sign which forbade any and all smoking in seemingly definite terms. Distracted by blood curdling cat calls, my eyes were drawn to the center of the ring where a human octopus of arms and legs struggled frantically, accompanied by grunts and growls which seemed to be emitted from regions somewhere un- der the wreckage. Seeking the most remote corner of the bleachers, I set- tled down to view the demolition. The two squat, swarthy giants inside the ropes were being very rough. In- deed I might say that they were being downright brutish with each other. I should have had some pangs of com- passion for them, but I found myself watching the two men much as I remember watching two lions fight- ing savagely in one of Osa Johnson’s films. The two women who sat beside me, (I shall not call them ladies) were extremely excited, and encouraged the wrestlers with such spurring remarks as. “Kill him, Larry,’’ “Throw him out,’’ and “The dirty thug.’’ During intermission between bouts these same neighboring enthusiasts discuss- ed the economics of lower class living. I was amused, a little disdainful, and yet they showed an amazing honesty and realism which fascinated me. There was no pretense, and the very vulgarity for which I felt disgust was somehow better than the artificiality of a few supposedly well-bred people. On and on the gorillas slugged and bit and scratched and rolled. The crowd became more fanatic; I, more sleepy. I looked up to meet the non- committal smile of my companion. “What an experience!” I wheezed through the billows of “two for five cents” cigar smoke and so it was. Johanne Black 8

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TIGER ‘43 Literary. WHY? WHY? WHY? In the library a boy who was looking over the shelves was asked what type of book he wanted. “Oh, this is for a book report”, he replied hurriedly so as not to give the im- pression that he ordinarily read. An- other person in answer to the same question confessed apologetically that he wanted a book merely for his own enjoyment. Then again there were the two students who while discussing another re marked signific- antly, “Oh, She studies” — as much as to say, “What a drip!” High school students seem to attached a stigma to reading and studying. They associate those who read with dull, studious people whom one must not imitate in order to be popular. In college the situation is re- versed. To be popular or even toler- ated you must be well-read. For college students realize the value of book learning. They know that books impart something more than facts. Literature, by interpreting some aspect or quality of the age in which the author lived, teaches tol- erance, a better understanding of character, and the qualities that make men great, and, in general, gives us a broader outlook on life. The study of language makes us better compre- hend the nature of foreign people. History makes us understand the pre- sent in terms of the past. Mathematics teaches concentra- tion: and the sciences, observation. As Bacon said: “Reading maketh a full man.” Why is it, then, that we high school students must continue to apologize for book learning? Joyce Bousley — o — THIS HUMAN RACE There are so many things I want to see and do before I lose youth and curiosity and enthusiasm: before I become content with a rocking chair, a purring Maltese cat, and an open fire. I suppose everyone feels the same desire to do things, special things, and I also imagine many de- sires are mutual ones. I v ant to bi- cycle through England some day when this war is won. I want to see Canada, and Mexico, and the high Sierras: I want to sail a boat along the entire Atlantic coast. Those de- sires are my castles in the air. There are other experiences I want to have, smaller and less significant, but when 7

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TIGER ‘43 A RIDE ON GENTLE PALFREY It was a lovely day — cool and crisp with just the proper touch of Jack Frost upon the trees to make the country side riotous with color. I felt exuberant. Considering the fact that Lm young, very innocent, and tremendously fond of life, I feel that way often, but this aforementioned day I was bubbling over with a gen- erous spirit for man and beast alike; I was going to ride a horse. I had never ridden a horse before in my life. You probably wonder why I didn’t say that I was going to attempt to learn to ride a horse, but I assure you the thought of not succeeding never once entered my mind at that time. I swung the door of the stables open with all the bravado I usually pos- sess and a little more thrown in, as was fitting for the occasion. My gal- lant steed appeared to be complacent- ly eating his morning fare, and as I approached his stall he eyed me with marked distrust and still more ob- vious disapproval. “Hello there, aren’t you glad we’re going for a ride?’’ I coaxed in a cheerful voice, hoping to appease the poor animal for his interrupted break- fast. His answer was a very decided snort and an unfriendly side glance which seemed to express to perfection his entire opinion on the situation. Undaunted I enthusiastically scram- bled into the saddle, picked up the reins, and grinned triumphantly over at my companion who was appar- ently awaiting the kill. The first doubts assailed me — he knew my horse and me thoroughly; and the smug, amused look on his face belied the mental prophecy he was forming for my ultimate downfall. “I suppose it is an easy matter to reason with a horse, appeal to his sense of chivalry, or something?’’ I commented, suppressing an ever in- creasing fear that the animal might attempt to run away with me. “No!’’ was the definite reply. “You either will learn to master him, or he will master you in a hurry.’’ I tried to look intelligent, but my theory on how to manage an animal, any animal, was somewhat vague and muddled. I remembered my dog, who is a model example of the disturbing cycle of girl owns dog, but dog owns girl. My last shred of con- fidence abandoned me, and I wonder- ed pessimistically how my friends had ever had the audacity to place me in the category of extroverts. We started out, both my hands desperately gripping the saddle. I bounced along agonizingly, ironic- ally awpre that the name of my mount was “Southern Comfort.’’ I have had occasion to call him several names since that first day, but I as- sure you they never even closely re- sembled “Comfort.’’ As if hanging on weren’t the 9