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

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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.

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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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The Screech Owl 15 (Eln ll|F S mnrH Your high school days are over, But before we say farewell, We rise to drink a toast to you. May fortune serve you well ! Prepared you are for higher things ; Your path lies straight and clear. To a higher plane of honor and fame Stride forward without fear. The world is all before you now. Whatever you will is yours. For the laurel crown of honor goes To the one who strives and endures. We wish you all the best of luck In everything you try. And hope you will not soon forget Your years in Maynard High. — K. S., ’38.