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

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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.

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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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THE SCREECH OWL 11 “Barney,” cried the man. “Boy, I haven’t seen you for years. How are you, old man ?” He was on the running board pumping Barney’s hand. “Bud!” was all that Barney could say — possibly the surprise forced it out. Bud could and did talk steadily for a time — told Barney that he had risen in the world, that he was leader of a popular band which played nightly at the Colonial Grill. “Why don’t you come to my apart- ment now, Barney? Then you’ll come to the Grill tonight and hear the boys play. Oh, come on.” So Barney left the truck and followed his friend to the taxi. That night found him at the Grill in a borrowed dress-suit, watch- ing Bud lead his band. It came time to broadcast; everything was made ready and finally they were on the air. Their soloist, a tenor, hadn’t ar- rived. Bud became more and more nervous — the proprietor began to tear his hair. Poor Bud racked his brain; suddenly he remembered that Barney used to sing. He implored him to take the tenor’s place — he in- sisted, and finally ordered Barney to stand up before the mike and sing. Barney stood up, and finally he sang. Then, the song finished, he sat down. That wasn’t the end of it; telephone calls and telegrams kept coming in from the studio and direct to the Grill. Bud was overjoyed — Barney didn’t understand it all. But at the end of the year Barney Fallon had crooned his way into the hearts of both his country-women and his country-men — his name was known all over the nation, and yet no one knew anything of his life. Neverthe- less, Barney Fallon was receiving only two hundred dollars a week as salary. Early in April, Maud Allan was sent by her editor to get some sort of an interview with Barney. Maud was thrilled at the prospect. She knew many others had tried and failed, so she was prepared for a long, hard struggle. Next evening found her at the studio waiting for the idol of the nation to finish broadcasting. Barney used a different exit. Maud waited at the studio night after night, but Barney always escaped. She de- cided that it was getting her no- where and so the next evening when Barney entered his apartment Miss Allan was there. Barney went down the fire escape ; Maud called to him to come back, but in vain. Next day when Bud came in to see his friend, Barney was mournfully re- garding an official letter from the studio. “What’s the matter this fair morn- ing,” asked Bud jovially. “Look,” said Barney, for brevity was still the keynote of his speech. “I can’t do it.” Bud looked — then spoke. “Why of course you can do it. All you have to do is meet Miss Allan at the studio and take her out to dinner. It’ll be easy — you won’t have to do anything except answer questions. Oh, you’ll get through it all right.” Barney took Miss Allan out to dinner. Now Maud Allan was very wise ; she was breathless at the honor — very obviously so — and under her admiration, Barney became loqua- cious. He found himself thinking what a wonderful girl Maud was ; he asked her out to dinner again. Barney saw more and more of her and began to feel more and more important. A few months later Maud and he were married. And now Barney Fallon’s salary runs to four figures. He has his pet announcer and his tempera- ment. But he still makes one word do for three or four. Edith Priest, ’32. REPORT CARDS ’Twas the day for reports cards, and down on my knees, I hunted in vain for the “A’s” and the “B’s”; Not a good rank was on it, not even a “C” ; The marks were off duty. Oh ! Where did they flee ?