Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

Page 24 text:

EKMKHMKMKEE! - M-TE!!3941KSGIEEEMMXKEPEMKIEEKEMMREKKEMEEKKKKKERE!!! Literary PENMANSHIP IN THE RAW DONT believe I shall ever master the art of writing - that is, not only composing but simply iuscribing letters on papers so that they will be legible. After years of trial and error I am convinced that my handwriting will continue to be afflicted with bili- ous I's , sloping a's , and 'to's that fold up like accordions. Psychologists, or anyone interested in the ease, would probably trace the intirmity of my handwriting back to the formative years of my education and would probably discover something quite revealing and not very flattering. As far as I can remember, I was taught to write in the generally accepted man-- ner. I copied pages of lettering from charts. I was encouraged to write on a blackboard at home QI suppose I did get some practice during these sessions at the blackboard, but I usually ended up drawing turtles. the only animal I ever could draw, which is probably significantj. I practiced on the school blackboard, the teacher guiding my hand which shook with exertion when I executed the capitals. I have always felt that it wasnlt quite fair to blame her for my lack of success in these etforts, since she could write quite well alone. In the third grade I was introduced to pen and ink, and it was then that I realized that the pen was mightie than the pencil. I can still remembe' Tln supervisor swayed up and down the my first penmanship exercise. aisles singing, Hlip over down. ul over down, swing . . My face was wreathed in inkg I clawed over the paper, my pen scratching loudly. Sud denly a stentorian voice rang out Whose pcn is scratching?,' A tense moment passed before I realized she was referring to mine. I stopped write ing, the class proceeded. and I remained with my pen poised over the iukwell Then the class reached the next page in the copybook, I hastened to catch up with them, my pen sputtering pro- testingly. Every pcnmanship day be- came a life-sized nightmare to me. I always missed the bus trying to get the kinks out of my t'm's and the sag out of my 'tp's . Since then my life has been one long struggle with broken-down pencils, leaky pens, and neurotic points. And still I cannot draw two f's in suc- cession the same size, and still I can- not draw a uw without an untidy permanent wave. I try, to convince myself that with- out these idiosyncrasies .my writing would he characterless. Hbwever. I am resolved not to submit any sample to o11e of those people who presume to read one's character in this way. I

Page 23 text:

EEEMMKEEENEKKKKKEMEKKKH rec1'eation. The tempting bait of war jobs with high salaries and opportuni- ties for artificial pleasures and excite- ment, is dangled on a shining hook be- fore our eyes. VVhen demobilization day draws near, we shall be among that sea of helpless fish cast back into black crowded waters because we do not measure up to the required standards. And why is it that we have not passed the test? The answer revolves around education. which is becoming 'more and more necessary. After the war employment will call for college and high school graduates. Those lacking one or both will find themselves flounderingi about with the million other fish. Think to the future. Plan accord- ingly for further education. Be one of the lucky ones who will meet all requirements. KATHERINE F. SULLIVAN HIS year Miss Sullivan resigned, and her many former pupils, re- gretting that she could not stay long enough to watch over their grandchil- tlren's education, will pay tribute to her. VVe, who can never forget the days when she was our principal, would like to extend our appreciation also for the years she was with us. When we entered the NVinthrop School as fourth graders, we were dimly conscious of a high, mysterious chamber in the Manning High known EEEKKKKEEEKMKKEKKKIKKKER as Miss Sullivan's office if we did not behave properly. Assemblies and class plays were never complete unless Miss Sullivan were there, snapping a cricket she held ill her hand when the audience was noisy. or smiling approval at some of our antics. lt was more of an occasion then, and our performances were more inspired. ln our last year of grammer school we became better acquainted with Miss Sullivan. We took turns being her of- fice helper, running errands or clean- ing out the closets and cutting out pic- tures from the National Geographic for geography class. NVaiting in the ante-room to her office, we would gaze at the fish in the big bowl in the cor- ner, the posters hanging on the wall do11e by former talented pupils, and feel the old lndian relics in the cabinet. There was something impressive about that room that 11ever failed to interest us - perhaps, the mere knowledge of Miss Sullivan's presence. NVe realize now even more than we did then what a reliable and helpful friend Miss Sullivan had been to us. XVe shall always retain a pleasant memory of the days when we knew her.

Page 25 text:

ll!-KUIEUEUEEBKIKKEIIERIKIUE never did believe any such supersti- tious nonsense - and -- l'm afraid of what might be revealed. June Bousley ON FIRE IRE is a moody Miss. She must be pan1pe1'ed and at every moment blaze into sizzling' otf heat to a cold room. spoil ed, catered to in order that she flames and throw l've often wondered how the pioneers of yesterday ever survived freezing temperatures when their only means of warmth was a log' fire. From my experience. which is of long' standing, the idea seems almost absurd. After my attempts at building' a fire -the lndian method, the Girl Scout formula, and then falling back on my own technique - bear the proverbial fruit, T settle back to. revel in the wel- come heat. Alas. this is an almost im- possible task. Taking my position al- most in reach of the flames, my feet in the andirons, I soon smell burning leather and discover that my shoes fwith rationing' as it isj are on the verge of bursting' into flames while Those that dwell within, my feet, are still several degrees below freezing einperatures. My legs are in a dis- 'raught shape, the hair having' been tinged off - almost. ln the meantime ny back is racing with shivers, Hllil mnly that portion exposed to the tire s warm, too warm. lil!!! As a result l recede from the burn- ing wood and settle down once more to await the warmth which should be the reward for my laborious efforts. But no, soon l'm shivering all over. Even my leg's, arms, and face are cold now. althoug'h the redness of heat ac- quired at closer 1'ange has not yet disappeared. lVith a heavy sigh l move nearer to the hearth and enjoy the warmth for several seconds until it becomes unbearable again. Then I have an idea. Carrying it out, l turn my back to the fire. This is a very successful plan, but the odor of scorched wool informs me that perhaps my sweater has chang'ed from its white- ness to a dingy yellow and is naked of its wooly exterior. V Quickly, l move away from the flam- ing' logs: comfort ensues only to be interrupted by cold chills playing' a g'a1ne up and down my back. After carrying out more maneuvers of this type, exhausted, l try to figure out a log'ical position in which to sit. Perhaps if l moved a little nearer to the fire. or maybe if l sat at an angle, 'that would solve my problem. l shall never discover the proper place to sit before a fire wllere I won't be hot to the point of bursting' into flames or cold to the point of becoming' an ice cake. NVith the forlorn and defeated slouch of the conquered. I retreat to the kitchen and the faithful stove, leaving 23