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

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14 THE SCREECH OWL the woman who had once come be- tween them was married, they tried to atone for the empty years. “You must sit down, Richard. Have a cigar. I shall have the butler bring you something — .” He smiled shyly. And so they sat opposite each other, smiling contentedly as the re- maining years became charged with the certainty of happiness for both. It was late when Richard rose to go. Lewis helped him with his over- coat, and summoned the car to carry him to the stark boarding house which he called home. “You’ll be back soon, Richard ?” “Certainly, Lewis.” “That’s fine, we’ve got so much to talk about — Good night, Richard.” “Good night, Lewis.” Dample went back into his big house, no longer alone. He entered the library and crossed to the table. There was a soft smile in his eyes when he read the notice. Lewis had spoken the truth when he admitted having read the article in that morn- ing’s paper. And Lewis knew he had been right not to tell his friend that this wasn’t their Nancy. Their Nancy had been dead five years. C. Coughlan, ’31. WHILE THE WORLD SLEEPS The heavy door swung shut behind her with a dull thud, the hinges scraping rustily as they slid into place. The street was dark except for an uncertain ray of light escaping from underneath a drawn shade. She shivered as the sharp March wind whipped across her face making her blind her eyes to keep the fine dirt out of them. The single wail of a lonesome dog caused her to shudder and look around cautiously over her shoulder. Hugging the side of the house, she silently crept around the building. The heavy clouds scudded across the windswept sky. A star twinkled hopefully for a moment and was smothered by the threatening gray. She stumbled as her feet caught in the hard ruts of frozen ground. Sit- ting down carefully on a cold soap box filled with ice she studied her nails. The sense of loneliness left her as she saw an indistinct form hurry across the hard ground. Her friend at last! A warm greeting, and then they moved slowly down toward the railroad tracks. What! An eloping couple! Don’t be so romantic! Just the cat put out for the night! Ethel Elson, ’30. THE WISH I may demand what I would most desire, And it is granted me. Perhaps but yesterday would I aspire No more than just to be For one brief hour of silent ecstasy A pine tree slim and straight against the sky, With the evening star to crown my lofty hair; Or else to be, when sporting winds the high White birch trees toss in air, A millionth leaf of dancing, raptur- ous bliss ; Or a maddened blue bird swooping down to kiss In joyous whirl the waters’ misty crest ; Or a throbbing poem from a dying master’s breast, A thing of beauty in a world of tears. But now I’m tired, and only ask but this, To sleep ten thousand years. S. W., ’30. A DESERTED GARDEN This garden once was a lovely place With a little of everything ; There were pansies, and phlox, and larkspur, too; And roses fit for a king.

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THE SCREECH OWL 13 A TESTIMONIAL Dear Editor: — I got so much relief from the “Screech Owl” that I feel I want others to know all it has done for me. Two years ago, when I began read- ing the magazine, I was continually in ill health. My complexion was sal- low, my general condition was very run down, and the doctors said I was suffering from etaoinshredflu. I have never missed an issue of the “Screech Owl” and today I am in perfect health, full of pep, and my friends all assure me that I never looked better in my life. Today I am a success in every way, whereas I was formerly a mere wall- flower, unable to converse on topics of current interest, and a bore. I now have an unfailing source of jokes and witty sayings in the “Screech Owl,” which I find most helpful. I consider the “Screech Owl” the only safe and sane way to reduce. I have found that it is really easy this pleasant, new way. None of the starvation diet, harmful and violent exercising, or drug methods. My motto has been simply, “Reach for a ‘Screech Owl’ instead of a sweet,” and in this delightful manner I lost twenty pounds in two weeks. I do hope someone else may be in- fluenced by my experience to read the “Screech Owl,” and I want to thank you most heartily for all the maga- zine has done for me. Gratefully yours, (Miss) Flora Flittermouse. REUNITED “Richard Dale to see me?” The middle aged man in the rocking chair questioned the butler incredulously. “You are quite sure you have the name correct?” “Yes sir, Mr. Dample. He said, “Pleasq tell Mr. Dample that Mr. Richard Dale wishes to see him.” “Yes — yes. Show him in.” Lewis Dample laid aside book and pipe. He rose and smoothed the folds of his lounging robe. He was con- scious of a queer excitement. His mind searched the past across the stretch of fifteen long years of estrangement to the happy days when Richard Dale had been his in- timate friends. Dample was a stubborn man, but sentimental. At the moment he did not question why his old friend had come; it was sufficient that he was here. Richard Dale came into the room, and the butler softly withdrew. Dample was shocked at Richard ' s ap- pearance. He knew his age, of course — but somehow the man seemed older. His cheeks were shrunken and his shiny serge suit proclaimed his shabby condition. For a moment Dample was embar- rassed. He regretted the luxury of his surroundings. The two men stared at one another, and there flashed across the mind of each, memories of their years of friendship. They had been separated because of a girl neither one had won. Love had turned to bitterness, and when she rejected both of them each thought the other to blame for his failure. Neither man had seen no r heard from her since. Richard Dale spoke first. His man- ner was hesitant and his words came slowly. He extended to Dample a small newspaper clipping. “I wonder if you saw this Lewis ? It was in this morning’s paper.” Dample took it with shaking fingers. He read the notice. Marriage: “Nancy Jones to James Spaulding.” Dample’s hand shook more vio- lently. “Nancy is married. There is noth- ing now to keep us apart,” Dale spoke very simply. Lewis advanced, hand extended. “This makes me happy, very happy.” Their hands met, and then, because

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THE SCREECH OWL 15 But I gazed at it sadly the other day, For the garden was dry and dead. I saw none of the gay scene I once had loved, Only weeds in each flower bed. Yet I made, as I viewed that neglected old place, A vow that should head each life- page; “Resolved; that bright youth shall e’er bloom in my heart And crowd out the weeds of old age.” Jane Boicourt, ’29. A PARODY— “PLAY THE GAME” When one great scorer comes To write beside your name, He writes-not that you won or lost, But how you played the game. Do you wish the world were better ? I can tell you what to do. Set a watch upon your actions, Keep them always just true blue. Clean your mind from selfish motives, Make your thoughts both clean and high, You can have a little Eden In the spot you occupy. Gilbert Garland, ’30. A STAR The lamp, lowered, Streamed dimly out Where I waited Tense and anxious. A feeble wail, The shadow of the mother Bending, worn and tender Waiting with patience. ’Twas strange. That night I saw a falling star. Folks said A soul had gone to Heaven. Ethel Elson, ’30. SUN TO SUN Day is ending, Night’s descending, Shadows creep, Earth’s asleep. Fire fly gleams, Moonlight beams Rushing here Cross the sphere. Hope is winging, Counsel bringing, Worry’s ended, Ways are mended. God erases Toil worn faces, Time goes on And reaches dawn! Doris L. Dawson, ’30. MY MASTERPIECE I’ve simply got to write a poem, And do so pretty soon, But I don’t want to write it This warm June afternoon. I need an inspiration, And though I’ve pondered long, The only thought that comes to me Is far from poem or song. I’ve used up all my paper, And still it isn’t done, But I’ll just let it go at this And pass it in for fun. Eileen Mahoney, ’30. LET IT RAIN— LET IT POUR Sometimes it rains ; sometimes it pours, And when I have to stay indoors, I’ll curl right up in a little nook, And bury my nose in an English book. Edward J. Hannon.