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

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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

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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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10 THE SCREECH OWL that Carbone is going to make the coffee. The day of my funeral arrives and the undertaker comes in to close the coffin. The lid comes down with a thud bringing me to my senses, and I look very sleepily into the face of a Smiling dentist who had just ex- tracted two teeth. Leo Mullin, ' 28 . THE MARCH OF A GAY COCKADE (Apologies to Tennyson) I One more step, one more step, One more step onward, Two, three or four abreast, Saunter three hundred, Into Assembly Hall, With not a care at all, Two, three or four abreast, Saunter three hundred. II Into Assembly Hall, We have obeyed the call, Of the Assembly bell, Why should we worry, Our’s not to hasten on, Our’s not to lead the throng, Our’s but to sing a song, Into Assembly Hall Saunter three hundred. III Teachers to right of us, Teachers to left of us, Teachers in back of us, Glower and mumble, Glared at with lowering brow, On through the hall we plow, Into the center isle, Up to our seats, and now, Down flop three hundred. VOICE-COMPLEX Barney Fallon was the tenth child in a family of ten boys — that in itself was enough to weigh him down. But to make it worse, Barney was a sensitive, music-loving lad, and that in an Irish contractor’s family. His father, red-headed Mike Fallon, never understood his youngest son- — and Barney certainly had nothing in com- mon with the nine young giants who were his brothers. His mother would have understood him had she lived, but his Grandmother Fallon brought him up ; old Mrs. Fallon was anything but understanding. By right Barney should have been slender and delicate. Instead he grew to be bigger than any of his brothers — something about his features showed him to be different from the other boys. His quick growth made him awkward; he naturally became the butt of all his brothers’ fun- making. When his sweet high pitched voice never changed, you can imagine the results. It was enough to make Barney resolve never to speak again. It did serve to give him a deep-set inferiority-complex and make him think twice before uttering a speech. During his school days, Barney’s only chum was Bud O’Leary. Bud played the violin, and Barney spent hours listening to Bud playing; and once in a while Barney sang. It was only once in a while, and he never sang for any one else. Barney didn’t go to High School — he couldn’t stand the laughter any longer. He and Bud kept seeing each other until Bud graduated, organized a band and went his way. Barney tried various jobs — he was a grocery boy, an ice- man, a boxer by popular vote of his brothers, and finally became a truck- driver for his father. He became famed for uttering few more than two sentences a week. When Barney was twenty-four he was still driving his father’s truck and had cut down his utterances to one sentence a week. One day he was sitting in the truck waiting for his father when a taxi drove by. It stopped a short distance ahead of where the truck was parked. A man got out and ran back to the truck.