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

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8 THE SCREECH OWL our journey, after plowing our way through musty books, eagerly grasp- ing knowledge or just as eagerly pass- ing it by. We have come through with honours. One stage has been passed and we will be ready to fight new difficulties and remain victorious. We have but a short time left in which to justify ourselves in the eyes of our fellow classmates, to strive to achieve worthwhile things; something that will live after our merry laughter through the old halls has only become an echo; something which will be passed to the new classes who will take our place and begin where we left off, proud to carry on our work. Let’s never admit defeat. Even the most lowly amongst us yet possesses some quality to be admired and re- spected. My message to you, my classmates, is “Never Say You’re a Failure !” Irja Jokela, ’31. OUR DEBT Every public high school must give instruction in indoor and outdoor games and athletic exercises accord- ing to State Law. Inadequate facili- ties for a comprehensive schedule de- mands a flourishing outside activity in this line, which is made possible through the Athletic Association. This organization must annually meet an estimated expense of $1299, which sum does not include the buying of any uniforms. The sources of revenue open to the A. A. are few: admission to games, plays and socials; profits from candy sale, and A. A. dues. It is easily seen that these are not ade- quate unless each student contributes his dues. It has been argued that only those athletically inclined are benefited by the A. A. This is a fallacy, because the one who participates in sports has only the physical benefit, while the one who does not participate ob- tains recreation and relaxation. Also, the player pays his dues and then performs for the benefit of the other students. Every student wants to be a mem- ber of a school whose teams perform in a creditable way and win a fair percentage of their games. Nothing will inspire a team to do its best more than knowing that the student body is supporting it. Catherine Coughlin, ’31.

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In this day of drastic changes and new fads it is only right that the “Screech Owl” should join the proces- sion. Since the paper first made its appearance it has had the same cover-design and, like all good things, it had its day. After the publishing of the last issue, the printer told us that the front plate was becoming very much worn and dulled. As a re- sult, the staff decided, instead of re- newing the old plate, to run a contest and get another design. This, it will be seen, does not alter the name or general idea of the front cover. We regret this change because the cover-design is like a memorial to the founders, but the name and the mag- azine still remain. This change may, we hope, make some new friends among the undergraduates and the townspeople, who we fear have be- come tired of the old design. It has been the aim of the staff to have the new cover as simple, as well planned, and as satisfactory as the old one. The winning design was sub- mitted by Guido Carbone, of the Class of 1934. And now, in its new apparel, may our paper go forth to ever increasing success. Editor. Sympathy is a word that is almost obsolete. Most people consider it a quality that is found only in the dic- tionary. It is rarely found and freely given, but is a quality that is always appreciated. Sympathy does not mean going into a hospital and regaling a sick friend with a list of relatives who have died of chronic ailments, and encouraging him to think what a fine funeral he will have. No, sympathy is not that. It is, however, a true endeavor to help a friend, an enemy, a stranger, any- one and everyone, with a depth of en- couragement and sincerity, a word or two of genuine feeling that makes us look up and respect the giver. Kindliness and pity are near rela- tives of sympathy, but friendship is the best. The quiet faith of a friend — how this stands out in our darkest hours. It strengthens the ties which even Time cannot loosen; it lightens the pain which our mistakes have caused us. Isn’t it worth while trying to be a better friend, a better person to know, somebody who’s human — and who has sympathy? A. L. White, ’31. SENIORS Shortly we will leave behind us our school life and enter a new world. Some will win fame and fortune ; others will fade away into obscurity, Our carefree and joyous times will only be happy memories. Seniors, we are on the last lap of

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The following article and poem are reprinted from the first edition of the Screech Owl, 1927 (by special permis- sion of the copyright owners) . MY INTERESTING EXPERIENCE What am I doing here? Here I am in a coffin. Well I’ll be a fish monger. They must think I’m dead. Well I’ll wait and see how sorry my family and friends are. Maybe I will change my opinion of some of them when I see how they feel. Here come some of them now. John Horan and Ken Murray enter on tiptoes (imagine Murray on tip- toes), and quietly gaze on my silent form. A few words pass between them and then J. Horan drops a dime in the coffin (he realizes that it’s his last chance to pay something on the bill). But a few minutes later Ken takes the same dime out of the coffin (he realizes that it’s his last chance to collect something on his bill), and they go out of the room. In the hall they are met by my brother who grasps their hands and then Ken and J. H. burst into tears (not because of sorrow but because it is a custom). After assuring the family that they would return late that night (prob- ably to get sandwiches and coffee or in other words something for noth- ing) , they went their way. After they had gone I heard my family in the adjoining room complet- ing the funeral arrangements. A shiver went down my spine as I heard them selecting the bearers and their decision to send for my forty-second cousin. I wished for a moment that I was not playing this trick, but on a second thought I decided to stick it out. Here come some more mourners. I recognize them as “Sleepy” Weck- strom and “Sheik” Carbone. Like the rest they grasp the hands of my brother and Carbone gives a little speech about how sorry they are. Then they proceed to the coffin ac- companied by my brother. As they gaze on the contents of the coffin “Sleepy” tells amid (forced) tears how I sat beside him in English and how I told him the definition of such words as catechising and antifractu- osities which enabled him to flunk English. After a few more minutes of unnecessary conversation they leave, using the gait that Grand Army men use when entering a cem- etery. After their departure I am alone again, cramped in that big expensive box. The reason they are so expen- sive is that they can sell but one to a person. The gloomy aspect of the surroundings and the thought of be- ing buried in a six by three by six makes me shudder with fear. But these thoughts are put aside when the door opens again. Mr. Edward “Buckshot” Fearns and Mr. F. Y. Z. Ledyard enter with long drawn faces. As they shake hands with my brother, big tears trickle down their cheeks (the results of a little glycerine). My sister ex- plains how I died from overstudy (sniff, sniff) and from practising my music lesson three hours a day (sniff, sniff). They come into the room and as they gaze down upon me several thoughts run through their minds — the five cents he owes me — the schooling I am going to miss by be- ing a bearer — . In a short time they leave the room, assuring my family that they will return since they know