Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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EBM ' lZElElQ!NBlEBHdl!lQLXl8JMElElZ EIEl3l3lQQ1ZlM Literary FOOTPRINTS T is dusk and over the verdant green of the distant hills the brilliant orange-red of the sun is setting. No sound disturbs the reverent silence, kllltl the untroubled sea betrays no sign of emotion as the tiny wavelets gently heave and retreat incessantly. The scene is one of loneliness, for few people ven- ture to this forsaken beach after the hours of daylight slip away. Across the occasional stretches of the sand the rugged reefs, reiiecting the brilliance of the ocean, cast grotesque shadows. And here in the wet, yielding surface of the coastline can be read the story of the days events since the time when last the rushing waters rose and obliterated all previous telltale marks. Here are footprints! Footprints! How strangely they record the course of humanity. Here a group of children played. Their mud castles struggle for survival against the surging inrush of the increasing waves. Along the shore is told the story of young love. The long. ground-covering steps of the boy, the steps of the girlls smaller feet, hastening to keep up. At this point they stopped and stood arin in arm, gazing in wondrous rapture at the pulsating ocean. Closer to the rocks. the hungry waves lick at the toes of a sand sculpture, left there by some un- known creator. Here a family had a picnicg the little toy imprints of the childrens feet, the nondescript treads of the older folk, and, in the midst of all, the mark of a chair and shoe prints make plain the presence of Grandfather. Away from all else is the evidence of a mens outing. A lopsided baseball diamond. the still-steaming rocks and seaweed of the clambake, and empty bottles bear witness to an afternoon of enjoyment, while the large and massive footprints identify the merrymakers. And now, at first slowly and imper- ceptibly but steadily growing more noticeable, the moon exe1'ts its mysteri- ous power over the water, and the sea rises and covers the gleaming white- ness of sand. The footprints are erased. - Cary Somers 3

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'Il514PIllZ4lIllZlilIllZ4lZUIl 551451014 Elilll-lIl'lIl-Ei ' i'ElE ElZl KNEE! 61353414 X El i!! El El' Editorial UNE, 1947 - a date our graduating class has been anticipating for seemingly endless years. And yet, in reminiscing, how quickly has the first phase of our life become a fond memory- book of happy, carefree days. Gradua- tion is the culmination of youthful years, the apex at which we must put away childish things and assume the roles of men and women. Four years in high school have be- come invaluable even at this early stage. In spite of the monotonous homework and teachers whom we often considered unreasonable, we think of the enjoy- ment derived from dances, basketball, football games, and plays. Remember when . . .? Now, our old world isn't actually beaten and weary, it still offers in- numerable opportunities and new fields for the adventurous and capable gradu- ates. Experience being the best teacher, we, as mere novices, must stand stead- fast in reaching our goals. Now par- ticularly are there bitter competition 2 and unwieldly obstacles to overcome, colleges are overflowing with education- conscious students, and employers have a choice of worthy applicants. A di- ploma, however, will have given us, in most cases, a foundation for future achievement. We shall realize in the future how much high school has contributed to our character Qwith perhaps a tang of regret for not having been a little more serious academicallyj. We shall ap- preciate more fully the methods of co- operation, hard work, responsibility, and consideration cultivated at high school. Above all, let our diplomas be a chain, linking together friends with whom we shared laughter and tears. As the last refrain of Auld Lang Syne echoes through the corridors of Ipswich High, letis toast to the future and remember: It's a rough road and a steep road And it stretches broad and far, But at last it leads to a golden town VVhere golden houses aref'

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lilEIEEIEPJWEIEIIEIEBIELEEWIWIEQIZTIEIZMMIEEIIX E IZKIZIIEIElgltillillilliliitlilililililillilgliltiltitlifillfdliilw THE SEA 'S SECRET HEHEYS a place up the beach and around the bend where the dash- ing midnight breakers heave up on the moon-drenched shore a wave-washed treasure of driftwood. Enhanced by the moonlight, the weird pile, barren and stark, casts with care a grim sil- houette in eerie patterns on the sand. Advancing, I try to distinguish one piece from another, to solve the mys- tery of how they came to be yielded unto the terrible merciless sea. I see tragedy in the broken oar, the curved rocks - and underneath, isnit that . . . But suddenly, I know I must turn back. This lucrative treasure is not meant for the eyes and probes of men. It belongs to the sea, she conquered it and she will retrieve it in her next surging tide, forever to be, though mor- tals may pry. an unsolved mystery and her secret. - Anne Barry IL PENSEROS0 F a grasshopper should accidentally be hiding in my pocket some gloomy day, he would probably consider hu- man beings a melancholy crew. But a learned companion might tell him later that weire not always dejected, since our moods of meditation come in cycles. On that morn, after sleeping and reminiscing in bed as long as possible 4 and doing the daily household chores, without a word to anyone, out the back door I glide and head for the blissful woods or rippling river or breezy fields surrounding our neighborhood. If it is summer, sunning peacefully on the slopes of dunes provides a perfect opportunity for reflecting. Watching the waterfalls and waves, following familiar paths with Nature for a companion are sooth- ing. Stopping iuto church on the way home - tempus doth literally fugit - how hushed are the rich refrains of the organ in the dim candlelight. God seems so near, it is natural to want to read the Bible. One of my greatest weaknesses is glowing embers in a fireplace. Curled up in a pillowy-soft chair before a fire, with a basket of apples and Contempla- tion, I can keep occupied alone for hours. and happy And should 1 not be alone, the psychic little grasshopper will know that I want my companion to be quiet but a little philosophical as we roll smoothly along country roads in an open car, a Warm, fresh May breeze blows, and a power- fully beautiful moon looms o'erhead. Sweet music is softly playing. Senti- mental? Perhaps. Mr. Grasshopper senses a little cry- ing spell, a natural remedy, coming on and hops off to bed to his favorite twig, undoubtedly happy he is just an ephemeral grasshopper. - Alfreda Cuik