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

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THE SCREECH OWL 15 Jennison could never remember clear- ly how he got down the stairs and out of doors. He had a vague recollection of dropping the keys somewhere along the way, and of lifting his face to the pleasant reality of the drenching rain. Nothing in the world had ever looked so beautiful to him as the solid gleam- ing metal of the car; nothing had ever sounded so beautiful as the loud, cheer- ful roar of the motor. As he raced down the shining wet road, he turned his bewildered mind upon his experience. He would never know just what to make of it. Per- haps he had not completely awakened from his nap in the car when he went into the house. Perhaps the figure had only been the shadow of a tree. But the sound of feet? The terrible face? Were they only nerves and imagination and his own theory as to Loren Beaks death? It was not the sort of thing you could discuss with anyone. Noth- ing would be gained by discussing it. Nothing he could do would restore the dead to life or bring back Mis’ Abbie ' s reason. Perhaps she had unwittingly married a murderer. What did it mat- ter now? The storm had died away. Along the eastern rim of the sky, a narrow streak of light gradually widened. It was dawn, it was another day, it was, Jennison had suddenly discovered, the swellest thing in the world. THOUGHTS OF A GRADUATE On a certain evening in June of this year, more than one hundred pupils of the senior class of Maynard High School will fil e slowly across the plat- form of the auditorium to receive their diplomas. I wonder what their feelings, as well as my own, will be. Will they be mingled with joy, sorrow, or possibly indifference? When the members of my class look back on the four years spent together in this one school, will they think of the fun, the homework, or perhaps the days they “skipped school”? Now the senior class is no longer made up of schoolgirls and school- boys. It is composed of men and women, ready to conquer the world; but they must conquer it alone. Now they can ' t run and drop wor, as they would a subject, just because they don ' t like it or because they dislike the boss. How many will be glad that they attended to their work — did all the unpleasant tasks — and how many will wish that they had one so? The teachers ' words have been, “Enjoy yourself, but don’t let up on your work.” That is sound adfice, and if you have followed it, your high school days will be pleasant memories, but they will also have been worthwhile. — Ruth McKenna, ' 36. ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON Have you ever wandered aimlessly along Scollay Square on a Saturday afternoon with nothing in sight for amusement? Then stopping by the gaudy entrance of a theater, you see on the billboard a “First run picture, serial, and news — only ten cents”? If you have ever faced this situation be- fore you have no doubt at least once made the same mistake that I did — that is, to walk in! After donating one dime for the maintainance of the theater, and climb- ing two flights of stairs which lead to the second balcony, I found myself in a “he-man nursery.” I say “nursery”, because the ages ranged from two to twelve years, and “he-man”, since on each face was a determined look which said loudly, “Wanna fight?” No soon- er had I found a seat than out went the lights and in came my trouble. After the news, which was about ten months old, a terrific roar of glee came from the balcony — for on the screen was the last episode of the serial “Two- Fisted Harry”. The picture opened with Pancho, the villain, casting Lucy, who is bound hand and foot, adrift in a boat headed toward Death Falls. Near- by on a high rock Two-Fisted Harry, bleeding from a bullet of Pancho ' s gun

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14 THE SCREECH OWL Atkins, the undertaker, who had come in to stay with him a while. “All at once, they heard Mis’ Abbie scream, — an awful scream, Mr. Atkins said it was. They all run upstains. Wendell was the first one into the little setting room, and the first thing he done was to close the coffin lid that Mis’ Abbie had broke open. Then he picked up his sister who was lying on the floor as if she was dead. The other two men said the look on his face was the most terrible look they’d ever seen in their lives. Poor Loren must have died an awful death. But nobody ever knew. You see, the min- ister and Mr. Atkins, they was real honorable men; and they repaired the seal that Mis’ Abbie had broke without ever opening the cofin again.” Mr. Bearce shook his head sadly. “Mis’ Abbie never spoke one word from that day to this. She just sets quiet, looking down at her hands or at the floor. I suppose when she thought about Loren suffering and dying alone, away from here, . . . well, I suppose in a way, she died, too.” They both sat smoking for a few minutes in silence. Jennison. awakening from an un- comfortable nap in the car, turned on the dash light to look at his watch. Two o’clock. The long-threatening thunder rolled and rumbled in black sky over which reflected lightning played. The dim occasional flashes illuminated the front of the old Sumner place across the road. He pulled his raincoat out from be- hind the seat and put it on, picked up his flashlight, and in a moment was fitting into the rusty lock of the Sumner house the key that Mr. Bearce had given him. This, he told himself, was all non- sense; and as he told himself this a chill travelled from his neck to his feet and back again. His heart was pounding so loudly that he almost expected it to echo in the cobweb-hung darkness of the empty hall. Then he and his heart stood perfectly still. Somewhere above him, some one was walking! Some one was pacing back and forth, back and forth, tirelessly without pausing. There was no mistake about it, either. It was the familiar monotonous sound of feet. It seemed unbelievable to Jennison that such a commonplace sound could become so horrible. He stood for an instant with his hand on the railing and wished himself anywhere on earth but where he was. Unfortunately he was a man of his word. He had told Bearce he would open the locked room. He also had said that the Sumner tenants were imaginative fools. So he went firmly up the stairs. The feet never stopped. Slowly, steadily they walked. Even as Jen- nison turned his flashlight on the closed door to find the lock, even as his hand seized the knob and opened the door, the feet went on and on. He snapped off the flashlight as he went in; he did not know why. The thunder crashed near at hand now, and the plae violet lightning made a weird daylight in the room. One flash showed Jennison the shad- owy figure of a man who was pacing the floor. It was certainly the figure of a man. For a moment he thought that Bearce might have tricked him, but he could not doubt the genuineness of the old man’s belief in the legend. No, it was not Bearce. Perhaps the brother Wendell had devised a hoax to keep the house vacant. Jennison stepped a little way into the room. The lightning flared again, and Jen- nison ’s horror-stricken eyes saw for the first time that the restless feet . . . were leaving no imprint in the thick white dust. Jennison stepped back to the thresh- hold, instinctively shrinking away from the figure. Just then, amid the deafen- ing cries of thunder, a wavering white blaze of light fell upon a face that he would never forget. It was a swollen, tortured, disfigured face; the throat was ridged and blackened and twisted; and beneath the ear was a great ugly bruise. It was the face of a man who had been hanged.

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16 THE SCREECH OWL sees the peril of his beloved one (no, not Pancho), and he dives into the raging waters to save her (cheers from the audience). As Harry (cheers) draws near to the death-approaching boat (gasps), Lucy (sighs) warns Two- Fisted Harry (hurrahs) that Pancho (boos) is going to shoot at him from the shore (boos and razzberries). Our hero dove under water just as six bullets whiz over his head, and Pancho, with no bullets left flees. At this point a small lad behind me became so excited that he shouted to the fleeing Pancho, “Run, you mug!” And for the climax he struck me behind the ear. I merely stood up to protect myself when those ever too familiar words “sit down” echoed through the theater, and I consented to their “request.” Now to go on with the picture. To the relief of the audience, the hero snatches his sweetheart from the boat about two inches from Death Falls, and despite his wound Harry has rescued the fair lady. But there is no time for Harry to lose. With a hasty goodby to Lucy he mounts his horse, and to the furious music of the vitaphone, and the rapid pulse beat of the audience, he gallops over hill and dale to catch Pancho. Is he successful? He not only catches Pancho but brings the villain to the sheriff, where our hero collects $1,000 for the capture of the desperado. Then what does he do? You can’t guess? Why, he marries Lucy! To see a feature of “the real West” after that serial was beyond me. I was trudging wearily down the steps, when one happy seven-year-old boy said to me, “That was swell, huh?” Not wishing any more quarrels I nod- ded, and he then asked, “Are you coming next week?” “Why,” I asked, “what’s playing?” “What’s playing?” he repeated in astonishment, his eyes popping from his head, “What’s playing! It’s the new serial, “One-Shot George.” — William Glickman, ’36. FINLANDIA I can see that harbor far away As I gaze across the ocean grand, And my thoughts go forward to the day When I will visit my father’s land. That land that is known for its thous- sand lakes, I have sailed to many a time in my dreams, But soon I hope to open dream gates, And set sail for that land of silvery streams. — Dorothy Simila, ’37. MY SHIP My thoughts are like a ship That carries me to sea And takes me to the place Where I would like to be. I travel to the mystic Orient, To northern ports so cold, Along the gay Riviera, And to Egypt, oh, so old. I have a port for every mood In both the East and West, But the home port, the true port, Is the one that I like best. — Helmi S. Tikkanen, ’37. TRAVELLING— AS I LIKE IT To those poor unfortunates who reside in hot, crowded tenement dis- tricts, probably traveling in any form is a real pleasure; but to us who live in the country, where it is not in the least uncommon to travel about, it is merely a pastime unless Wfe are fortunate enough to be able to do it as we like. If I had the opportunity to take a trip under circumstances which ap- pealed to me most. I would travel in this manner: I should choose to go by automobile and take with me on my trip a girl friend as the only occupant of the car besides myself. I should like to have a small Plymouth roadster, black with red wheels, as the car to transport me. The friend who accompanied me