Maynard High School - Screech Owl Yearbook (Maynard, MA)

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14 THE SCREECH OWL As one turns away from this mag- nificent scene, one cannot help but realize that the greatest of beauty is to be found in Nature. Edward C. Fearns, ' 28. Leap Year One February morning in the year of nineteen hundred and twenty- eight, Abigail Brown found herself in the clutches of fate. Just yesterday Abbie was a lady of great fortune but today everything was different. How foolish she was to trust that glib Major Van Dyke when he advised her to invest the Brown fortune in his radium mine. The mine was a fake, her money vanished with the false Major, and she found herself penni- less and friendless. It was beyond her ladylike manners to go to work. She had not a relative or friend to turn to. In the depths of her despair her muddled brain struck a happy idea. This was Leap Year! Why not exer- cise the traditional right of women and get a husband to support her. A rich man was her only salvation, she must propose. Craftily Abbie planned her cam- paign, she would attend the Charity Ball although she had not “stepped out for years. All the rich bachelors of the town would be there. She would start with the biggest and the best, and propose to every available man until she found one who would accept her. Abbie flirted desperately with every bachelor “daddy at the ball. After much maneuvering, she induced Mr. Bigbug to sit down a dance with her. Now was the time to strike. Abbie asked Mr. Bigbug very demurely if he would like a wife. The bachelor realized it was Leap Year and hast- ened away. This did not discourage Abbie, she decided to try Mr. Er- widow a widower. The widower was ready to confide his sorrows to any- one. Abbie got into a conversation with him very easily. She asked him if he intended to get married again. The man exclaimed with horror, “Not another woman for me! Alas, our Abbie had failed again. She imag- ined everyone was laughing at her. She was losing her temper. Biting her lip to keep back the tears, she ran home. Oh, the disgrace of that night ! Poor Abbie and her Leap Year pro- posals ! What was this? Abbie opened her eyes, she was in her cozy bedroom and her alarm clock was going off at top speed. The pro- posals were nothing but — a dream! Abbie ' s heart beat joyfully — pro- posals and fortunes. Bah! Helmi M. Hiipakka, ' 29. Rather Different Yes, he did look rather odd as he walked down the village street with that limp now almost imperceptible, but which still added to his somewhat singular appearance, his general habiliment bespeaking complete dis- regard of personal appearance, his pre-occupied manner unconscious- ness of his surroundings, followed by that queer, shaggy object, which, by its antics, evidently aspired to the name of “dog . John Harwood had always been, well, rather different. By one of those unaccountable tricks of fate he had been born into a respectable, common place, in fact very prosaic family, where, somehow, he didn ' t seem to fit. No tie of sympathy bound him to the rest, for his nature, utterly in- consistent with theirs, could not be understood. Serious in advance of his years, highly sensitive, contem- plative, reticent, a dreamer by nat- ure, a barrier separated him from them into a world by himself, a world of dreams. Tameness acquired in early childhood aggravated his nat-

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THE SCREECH OWL 13 have never had more than casual ac- quaintances ; I have never had an in- timate friend.” If we did find such an unusual character there is but one answer we could give him, “You have missed one of the most beautiful things this life has to offer you.” A pal is the most intimate type of a friend. One to whom you confide all your joys, sorrows, and even your thoughts; one whom you trust . It is human nature to want one per- son to go to for comfort when we are blue and discouraged; when we have become tired or bored with the rest of the world. It is then that we want to have a place where we know symp- athy and understanding will be found. It is even shown in the case of the very young child who loves some par- ticular toy above all others. Who, al- though dazzled at first by a new shiny plaything will turn ultimately to the old, faithful teddy bear or rag doll. But this close friendship is accom- panied with an ugly jealousy that springs up at the slightest and most illogical provocation. Not jealousy of material things that the other posses- ses but at the imaginary slights for which one is forever on the watch. It is the bitterness that accompan- ies all felicity. It is that which makes us recognize joy, for without this severe reminder we would forever look for, and never find, happiness. Edna Paine, ' 29. The Forest Primeval I A splash of water, a bubble, a wave; A rising echo bold and knave ; A sudden crash, a wailing cry, A moan — a shriek — a sobbing sigh ! n A rustle of leaves, a hissing sound; A sudden leap and rushing around; Silence, awe ; a stir — the breeze, A sudden wind — a crash — a tree ! Ill We can but wonder what beings creep In the forest primeval and deep ; On and on, all year around ; For ever and ever the echoes resound. Irma Ryssy, ' 28. The Yosemite Falls Downward, downward, downward, pours the water in a never ending stream. Dashing over the rocks in a constant flow, the current pours over the lofty cliff, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, on into eternity. As this scene meets our eyes, it carries to our minds some idea of the majestic grandeur of Nature herself. As we gaze on this imposing scene, we realize how truly great is the world about us, and how inconsequen- tial we ourselves are. We see the stream, falling tumultu- ously over a vast precipice, to a tur- bulent and boiling pool beneath. The spray and mist, bathed in pure sun- light, burst forth with a display of colors unrivalled in iridescence. The turbulent waters, flowing quietly away from the foot of the rag- ing cascade, pass through the restful peace of the forest and the cool calm and shade of the masterly oaks and hemlocks. On either side, this cataract is flanked by massive cliffs, carved by the tools of Nature and hewn by the hands of Time. Their stern, gray and sombre hue lends a picturesque and fitting background to this galaxy of the shades and tints of Nature. Nor is the art of the Yosemite Falls one of painting and sculpture alone, but also, it is one of music. The roar of the water, tumbling angrily over the precipice is mightier than the greatest of symphonies, while the quiet harmony of the stream, flowing serenely on its way, cannot be dupli- cated in the airs of the greatest of masters.

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THE SCREECH OWL 15 ural self-consciousness and diffidence, and more than once he had been hurt, as only his sensitive nature could be hurt, by some thoughtless, cutting reference to it. This drove him farther and -deeper into himself, into silent contemplations, introspections, and dreams, and consequently, to seek an- swers to questions which surged in his meditative mind, into the world of books. Such a nature does not seek com- panionship. It does not desire it, and seems not to require it. For human companionship it substitutes that of books, which often proves much more satisfying, and finds in nature the sympathy it desires, more vast, unsel- fish, peace-giving, and we might say understanding, than that of man, who ever egotistic, is susceptible to selfish concern. But nature in its infinity has a healing sympathy which humbles and exalts, glorifies, and calms with an ineffable peace. Who befriends nature and understands her moods, finds a friend never-failing. A disposition sensitive to the slightest irritation suffers agonies from the constant nervous friction which must exist wherever conflicting natures are forced into daily contact. This nervous irritability is unavoid- able for man is ever conscious first of another’s failings. To the highly sensitive feelings of John Harwood this irritation between him and those about him was torment, which be- coming unbearable, found voice in his cry, “Oh, for peace, peace, peace! Surely I do not ask much, only to be left alone 1” How he yearned for soli- tude! Instinctively, to protect what he felt to be sacred ground, his secret dreams and thoughts, against the trespassing of intruders who had the power to hurt, he assumed a manner surly and sullen, unpropitious to any advances, and built around him an im- pregnable wall of reserve within which no one might ever enter, con- clusive of his belief that he neither desired nor needed human compan- ionship. All problems his books solved, and for sympathy he turned to nat- ure, intermediary between man and his Creator. So years fled, swift in the passing but ages in retrospect to John Har- wood. And suddenly he realized that he was alone. No more need he cry out in agony for solitude, for Time had broken ties never to be bound again; but ties which are not of sympathy and understanding are easily broken, and he, after natural momentary grief, gloried in his new freedom, freedom from constant ner- vous chafing, tiresome obligations natural in a family, misunderstand- ing, and resulting self condemnation for his own impatience. So he drew in the air of freedom with avid ex- hilaration, and for a few months reveled in his solitude. But a strange unaccountable un- easiness suddenly forced itself into notice. He buried himself into a book, with its momentary banishment, but it returned, more forceful, more acute. His sensitive nature magnified it to actual misery. Day by day, more per- sistent, he felt it, a great empty void which weighed on his heart, his spirit. He smiled his cynic smile as the thought occurred to him, “An emptiness that weighs.” And the day came when his books failed in their accustomed agency of taking him from himself. But there was a power never fail- ing to alleviate his greatest suffering, to which during his turbulent boy- hood, he had had almost daily re- course. So he took the path through the wood, over the hill overlooking the small hamlet, past the last golden cornfield to the place where he had so long worshipped God’s creation, a place he had named the “Valley of Truth”. He seated himself against a tree, near the precipitous drop to the rocky glen below. The sacred hush of a Sabbath sun- set pervaded the fragrant air, and the