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

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The Screech Owl 13 Poor old Pa Jones pacified his neigh- bors, paid the damages, and had the sympathy of the whole townspeople for being burdened with such a pair of trouble-makers. Back in those days there was a firm making ale, which was nationally, yes, internationally known as the Jones Brothers, of Portsmouth, New Hamp- shire. Huge billboards began to appear on the landscape of New England, and one of the agents of this new form of advertising approached Old David Howell for permission to put up a sign on the hill back of the estate. Old David asked, “WhaPs going to be on the sign?” The agent replied, “Jones Brothers, of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.” Old David roared with laughter and said, “Put it up.” The huge sign was erected. In letters six feet high was JONES BROTHERS. “Of Portsmouth, New Hampshire” was in six- inch letters underneath. The sign stayed up. The Jones twins liked it very much and used to perch precariously on the top of it or sit with their backs against it to while away many hours of the summer days. 1917. War declared! Jack and Bill Jones were missing from Howell High School. Large for their age, they had enlisted, and poor old Pa Jones re- ceived official postcards notifying him that they had arrived safely overseas. The local newspaper had a lengthy article about the well-known Howell athletes, the Jones brothers, fighting bravely at the Front. That was the last the town of Howell heard of Jack and Bill Jones. Hi ❖ ❖ ❖ The steamer Almiranta was at anchor in the port of Caoe in the new- ly formed republic of the same name. Old David Howell and the Reverend Amos Adams, cruising for their health, decided to spend a few hours on terra firma. As the tender started. Captain Dean shouted, “Pve heard there’s a lot of unrest there, Mr. Howell, so re- turn to the tender at the first sign of trouble.” A native in military garb ap- proached and they followed him to the plaza or square which was located in a quadrangle of large white buildings. One by one, soldiers fell in behind them and they were soon ushered into an office where a man in officer’s uni- form was sitting behind a desk. “Your name, where from, your busi- ness?” snapped the officer in surpris- ingly good English. Old David protested at his rude manner but finally gave the informa- tion. The officer gave some orders to his men in his native tongue, then turned to David and said, “I’m Trezzo. You’ll be taken back in the country tonight and held for ransom. The churchman will return to the ship at sundown to tell your friends.” The detail of soldiers surrounded Old David and he was marched down a side street to a small abode hut and pushed inside. The only window in the room was beyond his reach and heavily barred. Old David was thoroughly dejected. Shorty after dark two soldiers brought some coarse food and water and placed it on an upturned basket in a corner near the window. A soft hiss at the window-grating attracted Old David’s attention. He went over below the window and whis- pered, “Who’s there?” “Friends,” came the whispered reply. Sounds of a scuffle outside, bodies hurled against the door, the lock gave away and two men in native uniform sprawled into the room. “To the ship!” they whispered, and Old David followed them into the wel- come night air. Across a field, down through a meadow, and to the ocean they ran. An old wooden shelter stood at the water’s edge. From this one of the soldiers dragged a row-boat and stood steadying it while Old David got in. Oars were in the row-locks, and a

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12 The Screech Owl had admitted his guilt. She went to Joe and asked for an explanation. To her astonishment, he declared he had not done it. ‘T con- fessed because I knew you did it, Myra. You were worried about me — and well, it was my fault, I guess.’’ She turned to leave the house — angry. But suddenly the telephone rang, and she stopped. Joe went to answer it, and something seemed to prompt her to come near. Oh, never would she forget the conversation. “Hello. Is this Joe? Well, Joe, this is Mr. Ronald. I believe that I have an apology to make. I should have known that you never would have taken the examination paper! The math teacher in the adjoining room just told me he borrowed it. I was not in when he called and he did not think that I would mind. I am sorry, and I shall try to make amends.” He did make amends. Joe did not even have to take the examination, and now they were graduating to- gether. “I said you were swell, Myra,” said Joe, a little peeved because she was not listening. But there was no time for the answer. The orchestra began playing the class song, and they walked down to- gether to receive their diplomas. The familiar words of the song reached their ears ! “and friendships that were strength- ened may be shattered now.” The End — S. Glickman, ’38. mu SUMMER HILL Just at the time when the mill whistle is about to blow, which is four o’clock, I like to be up high on top of Summer Hill where you can look down upon the town and the wind fans your face, driving away the heat. When you look down at the bottom of the hill, you can see the Assabet River slowly making its way to the sea. At times it seems to stop to get its breath before rushing over the slippery stones and rocky crevices. From the top of the hill there is a beautiful view of the surrounding country The verdure which covers the hillsides in the distance is colored a soft purple hue. The high pinnacle of the mill stands out against the sky as you make your way down the slope. Soon trees obscure your vision and you find yourself shut in by their branches. Summer Hill is not very high but it rolls along, making you think of a giant roller coaster. It is a splendid place to be when you are tired and want to get away from the noise and dust of the town. — Waino Williams, ’37. nk mu THE JONES BROTHERS Jack and Bill Jones were twins, identical in appearance, inseparable, and reputed to be the wildest boys ever raised in the conservative old town of Howell, Massachusetts. Henry Jones, their father, had been the first to build a home on the land adjoining the Howell Mansion, now oc- cupied by old David, a direct descen- dant of the pioneer who had founded Howell Plantation in 1636. Jack and Bill Jones did chores and errands at the Howell place and were always welcome. Old David said, “There’s a lot of good in those Jones boys. The only trouble with them is that they’ve a surplus of energy.” In school they were in hot water all the time, “licked” almost every day, kept at school after the others were dismissed, and called before the school committee on all sorts of charges. Irate neighbors called at the Jones house evenings to complain that Jack and Bill were riding their horses and cows, stealing fruit, vegetables, and farm wagons, breaking windows, and even “borrowing” roosters to fight for their amusement and returning them in sadly battered condition.

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14 The Screech Owl quick strong shove sent the boat on its way to the Almiranta. Old David was profuse in his grati- tude to the two soldiers, but they did not seem to understand him, and made no reply. As they approached the Almiranta they were hailed from deck and Old David was taken aboard by eager hands. The row-boat had started from the side of the ship. Old David rushed over to the rail and shouted, “Wait, I want to reward you for getting me out of that scrape.” Across the water came a voice, “Is that sign still upon the hill back of your house, Mr. Howell?” “Yes, it is, but who are you?” called Old David in amazement. Farther off came a laughing voice, “We’re the Jones Brothers” — another voice adding, “From Portsmouth, New Hampshire.” — Eunice Le Moine, ’40. PEDESTRIAN ADVENTURE As I stepped carefully out of my canoe at the head of New Found Lake and pulled the light skiff far up on the shore, the undiscovered land presented that green freshness that only lake country can boast on a warm August day. It was early morning, and a Sabbath stillness, broken only by the twittering of birds, seemed to pervade the air. At the right, a herd of cows were lazily splashing in the cool water. Pushing the low brush aside, I saw, swerving to the left, a warm, dusty road. Following tills, I passed between irregular pastures filled with cropped clover and stumps. Here and there a spreading chestnut or a clump of oaks shut out the clear blue sky and hid the hot disk of the morning sun for a mo- ment of grateful coolness. On one side, at the left of the road, an irregularly constructed log hut claimed my atten- tion. It was a rude, dingy affair, re- sembling a great, rough dog kennel. The door swung on one hinge and a bit of cloth flapped in the breeze at one window. Just beyond, a lone man, old and bent, with a scraggly white beard and a pair of overalls which had once been blue hanging by one strap, was cutting a little field of alfalfa. I hurried on, passing a corn field, and just beyond the turn I discovered a tiny rustic bridge spanning a dry bed bordered with thirsty weeds. Cross- ing the bridge I beheld an orchard, its trees bending with the weight of half- grown apples. I sped on across the orchard to the foot of a steep hill, where I spied a tiny trail. Clinging to the protruding roots of trees I made my way upward, and, when nearly to the top of the hill, I caught through the trees a view of the lake, which was most beautiful. The water rippled and gleamed in the bright sun, and the dark shores and wooded hills beyond fonned a quiet setting for its dancing brilliancy. — Katherine Sheridan, ’38.