Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

Page 25 text:

llXll31lr!!lLPiLfX.QX?D2i,Fiw913LXllf!QLXl'II1ll!ll!!IFilDilMlDilDill!!lllilllilllilllilwwlgllllllllll 213Zillii11131124511lXlB11Jill?NXHXLikillkillflMlkflliilE21ll!1llXllX!llXlDill?fllXINBilEll?il The pony's hoofs, in regular rhythm created a music that fitted, almost magi- cally, into the wilderness surroundings. The blue heron were seeking their morning meal of minnows in the marsh- land pools and ditches, while the gulls, seeking even larger game, swooped and dived over the river, washed with Whitecaps. The wind was cold but like an anti- septic of nature that cleansed the heart and soul and created an irresistible de- sire to seek the beauty of nature in her wildest moods. The hills that border the large, yel- lowish-green marshlands were clothed in the vestments of varicolored trees and bushes and various vines. Ever since my early childhood, I have called this hill the home of the lollypop trees. The sumacs were turning red, and the fuzzy seeds were children in the motheris arms. Near the large gravel pit, the great field birch swayed in the easterly breeze. The brilliant white of the lean trunks was the highlight in this mystic landscape. Oh Mother Nature, I do not forget the goldenrod or the aster or the black- eyed Susan or the purple-blue of the grapes on the climbing vine. The smell of the sweet grass fills the valley and the sharp, delicious odor of wild mint is all along the hilly trail. Yellow butterflies flitted about through the high grass. and monarchs sought the even taller weeds that border the edge of the forest. Mole and iield crickets were jumping earnestly on the gravel of the trail, and large grasshop- pers made short Hights through the star grass. Damsel flies flew about in the great playground of sky above my head. The trail spread many miles before the pony's hoofs and every glance held different views hitherto unseen. The crows squawked in a nearby pasture, and a hawk sailed over a distant wooded strip. Some bees were preparing their winter home with the sweet honey and honey comb, and they sought to clean out the summeris debris from their home in a trunk of an old oak tree. The ferns in the cool forest were turning brown and curled, and each leafy frond was losing its summer green. A green skin of moss covered the trunks of trees the lower branches of which had never seen the sun, and the pine needles beneath the evergreens were soft and spongy to the touch. I returned home through the lower meadow and observed the clearness of the fresh water brook that gurgled through the lowlands. I saw the lad- ened fruit trees and smelt the wild herbs that grew along our old and broken well. My pony lives with Nature all her life, but I am a human being and have to return at intervals to civilization. To me. nature teaches sacred lessons and is not just another property among more valued objects that life tends to offer. 23

Page 24 text:

EQIZXJQBEIZSIBli8lMDilQl!ilBlE'!ilEIliiJlXlliQi.2iliEE1llZl IE E lilglililililillililliliiili IEEEIIEEEEEQEIEQEIEQIEEISJEIZIEDQEEE Literary ' ' SMILE, PLEASE! OR weeks I had been looking for- ward to this day. For hours this morning I had stood before my mirror, trying glamorous poses and amorous smiles. Now the moment had arrived. On entering the photographeris make- shift studio,' I was abashed by the array of equipment, more formidable than that of a dentist. Trying not to show my feelings concerning the un- familiar implements, I collapsed weakly on the beach designated by the Wiry little photographer who was hopping about, waving his arms, and making insane faces in an effort to make me look at least a little amiable. Finally realizing what he Wanted, I gave him a generous smile - almost a million dollars, worth - sat very still, and awaited for what seemed to be an eternity and a day the click of the camera. By this time my generous smile had changed into a frozen array of teeth, and my once steady knees began twitching. At this the photographer shot out from behind the black peplum, pointed his paralyzing finger at me, and shouted, You movedlv I did notli' I responded hotly. 22 Yes, you didli' he roared, grabbing my ears and jerking my head around as though it operated like a swivel chair until it reached a position that Ripley would have believed impossible. Retreating again to his camera, he surveyed the pose for a moment, yelled innumerable orders at me, none of which I heard, and then ducked beneath the peplum once more. I held my pose for another eternity, then heard the click of the camera and the welcome voice of the photographer dismissing me. I rose weakly, crawled shakily away, and hoped never to retu1'n. -Athena Vlahos, '46 THE BIRDS, THE BEES, AND THE LOLLYPOP TREES N a cold and clear Sunday morning I saddled my white pony and ven- tured forth across the bridle paths and sand to see what beauties nature had in store for me. The sun had risen to the level of the tops of the pine trees on a nearby hill and only the purest sunlight sifted through the light green leaves of the wild cherry that bordered the trodden path.

Page 26 text:

E! X P14 Ei PF FI! ' PI! Ei 'Ii Ei Ei Ei Eiiiil fiiifli E3 lililil lililliflillillliililliililgllliiilil Like two cathedral towers these stately pines Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones, The arch beneath them is not built with stones, Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines And carved this graceful arabesque of vines, N0 organ but the wind here sighs and moans, No sepulchre conceals a martyris bones No marble bishop on his tomb reclines, Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves, Gives back a softened echo to thy tread! Listen! the choir is singing, all the birds, In leafy galleries beneath the leaves, Are singing! listen ,ere the sound be fied, And learn there may be worship with- out words. fLongfellowj -Alicia Hills, ,46 AGAWAM Where the skin teepees o11ce were and the council ring was formed, Where the dark-skinned huntsman made his arrows and stalked the deer, Today there is a village, my village. 24 A village by a tidal river divided into two and crossed by majestic arches that are bridges, A river that sparkles in the heavy heat of summer And murmurs sweetly beneath the crackling, crystalline veil of winter. Oh! by that name I recall many a well- remembered sight and scene Of the village bordered by the sands and barnacles and kissed by the spray of wind-tossed waves, Your dome-like hills, unshaven of the bristling pine, green hemlock, and sweet Field birch, Your tidal creeks winding their way to the humming sea and to Harry Main's home on the bar, And that natural edifice, Heartbreak Hill, where the blood-stained Rock is proof to show that a maiden waited until the end for a sailor lad who never returned, The devil's footprint in the lichen- covered rock to show he jumped from the high, white Steeple, The great expanse of salty marsh, joined to the land by a fringe of flotsam, marsh hay, and drift wood, The well-curved elms spreading their green sheathed mautles over the lawns and walks,