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

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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

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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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THE SCREECH OWL 17 would be one whom I had known for a long time, whose ways and likes and dislikes were very familiar to me and similar to my own. I should prefer that she be not too much on the “talkative side,” for there is nothing more boring than a person who babbles incessantly about nothing, especially en route. I should want to know her well enough so that I could feel that I was not being rude if I did not keep up a steady flow of conversation; and, at the same time, I would like her to feel thoroughly at ease with me and be free to do and say what she pleased. I would want my girl friend to be the kind who could adapt herself to any situation; that is, if we were forced to stop at a farmhouse, when a good hotel would have been more to her liking, I would want her to accept the situation gracefully, and not keep both of us up all night complaining about the hard bed and the stuffy atmosphere. Travel- ing is very often “roughing it” and I should want my friend to be able to do this uncomplainingly. Lastly, if I could travel as I really would like it, I should wish to drive the car the entire journey. If my girl companion had a license, plus a keen urge to propel the vehicle, I should most certainly allow her to do this; but I must admit it would be with the greatest distress and mental sufferings. W hen a person is beside the driver, rather than in the driver’s seat, there is ample time and thought for criticizing and review- ing the defic iencies of one who is probably a better driver than you are or ever will be. Such are my views on “Traveling — As I like It.” If you think I ask too much, keep in mind that this dream will probably never be fulfilled and one might just as well ask for a lot, when he is quite sure of getting nothing. — Barbara Jordan, ’36. THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE Bang! goes the gong of Major Bowes. The aim of this program is to procure Work for the striving amateur, Bringing to the eyes of all the world The genius of American boys and girls. May those who employ him never shirk To let him continue his noble work, And in the future, with prideful tone, We’ll be able to say to babes of our own, When we repeat lurid tales of famous heroes, That we lived in the Age of Major Bowes! — William Murphy, ’38. HOW TO BE A BORE To me, the most unwelcome person at any social gathering is a bore. He is as welcome as a coffee drinker at an afternoon tea. A bore, generally speak- ing, is a person continually making him- self conspicuous. Although detestable individuals they are found in great numbers in all branches of society. There are many different kinds of bores as there are different kinds of everything. First is the Stale Joke Teller, probably the most common of all bores. Number two is the Hobby Bore. This type insists on talking incessantly on his hobby, which in most cases does not interest the listener in the least. Then there is the Sportsman Bore, much like number two, the fellow who taks and talks of the fish or game which he caught or which got away, as the case may be. And we can not forget number four the Operation Bore. This type is quite popular, or rather I should say unpopular, among women in society. A woman has a slight operation and from the way she talks about it for months afterwards, you would think she had appendicitis, gall stones, and concussion of the brain all rolled into one. And of course there is number five, the After-Vacation Bore, the friend who drops in, having just returned from his vacation, and insists on giving you a detailed descrip- tion of the sights. If you really want to bore someone to death — for instance, your wife’s family who are making a short visit which might last a couple of years, or some friends who insist on dropping in