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

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THE SCREECH OWL 13 Sylvester, the indignant father, monopolized the conversation. He claimed that he loved his son as well as his wife, and if he thought there was the least chance for a cure, he certainly would not object. But this was all nonsense — utter nonsense. However, when Lad spoke, “Father, please let me go. I know I can get well!”, the force that his implicit trust gave to his words won the case. Lad, accompanied by his mother and sister, reached Canada the next June. When Lad first caught sight of the spires of Notre Dame, he was deeply impressed, and reverently he gazed at “Our Lady.” He was told that he must fay a different prayer on each step, if the cure was to take place, but he could think, as he climb , only of the plea, “God, make me well. Please, God, make me well.” Patiently he climbed, repeating always his simple prayer. At last the top was reached! And lo! When he descended, the miracle had happened. He could walk! In Canada, there was a family rejoicing, that night. And far off in America, in the Sylvester garden, the breezes gamboled about, playing with the roses. Beautiful roses! Gay yel- low ones, bold red ones, shy pmk ones, pure white ones, and all with thorns — But if one really loves the roses, he does not mind the thorns. The flowers themselves seem so much nicer because of them — D. Glickman, ’34. MAY I like the way spring pear trees grow. Tall pyramids of drifted snow. Lifting their heads so proudly high. How -well thej know spring marches by! W. Mikyaniec, ’33. CIRCUS FEVER Gran’pa’s hitchin’ up the wagon. An’ there’s ’citement all aroun’ Even Dobbin ain’t a laggin’. Since the circus came to town. Gran’pa takes his pension money. Then divides it all aroun’, Buyin’ treats for me an’ Sonny, Since the circus came to town. Clowns do act most awful silly. Rollin’ hoops and failin’ down. Gee what fun for me ’n’ Billy, Since the circus came to town. Bet we’ve been to ev’ry show That’s been given on the groun’. Ma says we’re always on the go Since the circus came to town. Ruth Bishop, ’33. PROLOGUE Pierrot of the Minute was happy to find After so many years, searching in vain, That life was not just a long eternal grind For the struggle was very sure to bring fame. Pierrette was a lover of nature and life And her love for Pierrot was so true and strong That she fought for him through the greatest strife Though blind to the fact that he often was wrong. Mary Higgins, ’33.

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12 THE SCREE CH OWL these was the old rifle which hap- pened to catch the robber’s eye. Luckily for Mr. Young, the burglars were frightened by a noise from up- stairs and escaped without the papers. There was now only one way for the gangsters to protect themselves. That was to “get” Mr. Young. As their intended victim was walking to the corner for a taxicab another taxi drew up to the sidewalk. As Mr. Young walked over to the taxi a man leaned out with a rifle in his hands and aimed it at Young. As he pulled the trigger a terrific explosion came from the gun as it burst, severely injuring the man in the taxicab. As Mr. Young recovered from the shock, he picked up the pieces of the gun and smiled as he noticed some pieces of cement in it. “Well,” he exclaimed, “I thought you saved my life for the last time back in 1918 by shooting at others, but here you save my life while pointed at me. That’s surely a new trick to me.” Roy Lent, ’35. ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS 1. The breezes The future 2. Roses Pleasures of life 3. Thorns Hardships of life 4. Lad Faith 5. Mary Devotion 6. Mrs. Svlvester Religion 7. Mr. Sylvester Disbelief Lad Summer had come and a faint breeze stirred in the trees of the Sylvester garden. It was a beautiful garden, filled with roses of every description. There were gay yellow roses, bold red roses, shy pink roses, and even white roses — all beautiful — and all with thorns. The breeze left the beautiful garden and for one restive moment floated across the face of a boy in a wheel- chair, carrying with it the scent of the flowers. A smile flashed across the lad’s countenance. “Mary,” he said, “take me into the garden. The roses are in bloom!” The girl addressed was about nine years old and with her golden hair and blue eyes she showed a marked resemblance to the boy in the wheel- chair. They were brother and sister. Mary pushed the ugly wheelchair through the arbor and into the garden. For several minutes, then, she watched her brother, happy be- cause he seemed happy. At last she said, “We had better go now. Lad. Dinner will be ready and you know how father hates us to be late.” “Let me pick a rose first.” “Oh, Lad, I’ll pick one for you or get a pair of scissors. You may get pricked. There are thorns, you know.” Lad said, “Thanks, Mary, but if one really loves roses he is willing to endure the thorns. The roses them- selves seem so much nicer because of the thorns.” On the way to the house Lad asked Mary, “Why do you wheel me about? You don’t have to. The nurse would do it.” “But I like to,” was the reply. “You’re a good sister, Mary. But you won’t have to wheel me about much longer. I am going to get well soon. I feel it.” At the dinner table that evening Mrs. Sylvester remarked to her hus- band, “Have you read about the miracles occurring at Notre Dame? Crippled children have walked up the stairs of the church, praying on each step and have come down well!” Mrs. Sylvester was a pretty woman, though she was old, and she was dressed in white — pure white. Her husband answered, in a depre- cating manner, “I really don’t believe that those miracles occur. There is something underhanded somewhere.” “Oh, don’t you? I was thinking of sending Lad there.” A heated argument ensued. Or rather it was no argument, for Mr.

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14 THE SCREECH OWL “ ’TIS THE WOUNDED SOLDIER” (a la Edna St. Vincent Millay) ril make allowances for human ills, ril grant that things will be and they will not ; Perhaps you cannot know the love that fills My every part, and makes me rue my lot. But yet a little sympathy you owe To one who cannot keep from trying still. To whom your relief was a ghastly blow. Though in another I may heal the sore. Apply the antiseptic with a friend, Soothe with the gauze of experience’s lore. And with the bandage of protection mend, Tis the wounded soldier, with ev’ry breath. Stanching the bleeding gash, praying for death. SONNET Above the world of worry and of care. The moon sails high, and with a fine disdain Of all that sordid is, and all not fair, Pretends to overlook the gross, the plain ; But ’neath the pretense there is nice attempt To cover ev’ry blight with cloth o’ gold. And with a beaming smile fair Luna tempts Each unsuspecting beauty from its fold. As if by magic lawn and garden change. Before my eyes a silent wonder wrought. And peace comes in my heart with moon-glow strange, — Anxiety, the pain of grief are naught. Days limited, should I now wish to live? Then nights like this, what more has Life to give?