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

Page 11 text:

THE SCREECH OWL 9 THE FRIGID PRINCIPAL (After looking- in on the Ancient Mariner) It is the frigid principal, And he grabbeth one of three, By thy friendless look and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? Dismissal rang some time ago. And I would leave this hall. My friends do go, and I must too ; This aft’ eve play some ball. He holds him with his clenching hand. This subdued boy stood still. And listens like a brokened colt. The principal hath his will, (as usual) (3 hours later) The strickened youth sat at his desk. There was naught else to do, And thus did speak that learned man. And what he spake was true. ' ‘Bother, bother all the time. You make a lot of noise. Bother, bother all the time. You’re worse than other boys.” Thrice did you upset the class. And never your lessons do. I thought a while, and now I know Just what’s to be done with you. Farewell, farewell, but first to thee. You rebel, do I say, “He playeth ball who doeth all And acteth the right way!” — Sylvia Glickman THE LAST DAYS OF SENIORS As the first evident signs of spring appear in March, so also do the first faint rumors and vague plans for Graduation begin to be discussed. Throughout the four years in high school we Seniors have, more or less, subconsciously been striving for that apparently far-distant goal — gradua- tion. As the weather gradually grows warmer, and summer looms nearer and nearer, those indefinite prepara- tions for the commencement in June begin to materialize, and more definite plans are formulated. Of course, one of the first impor- tant events during the last year in high school, especially to Seniors, is the appearance of the photographs of our classmates. How eagerly we await their coming! Recklessly many of us promise pictures to everyone who asks for one, and consequently we later suffer pangs of remorse because our slender finances did not allow for such an extravagance. Some pupils

Page 10 text:

THAT’S LIFE The tinkling of a bell broke the silence of the little sidestreet pawn- shop as it announced a customer. The short, stalky Irish proprietor emerged from a back room to find a beautiful young woman, robed in mourning black, holding a cherubic baby in her arms. “A young widow,” said the pro- prietor to himself. He had seen many like her but it wasn’t in his business to sympathize with his customers. Somehow, however, as she pathetic- ally fumbled in pulling her wedding ring from her trembling left hand, clutching the child in her right, as tears welled in her lovely eyes, some- thing caught the Irishman’s heart. She laid the ring caressingly on the counter and asked, “How much could you give me for it, please?” Her voice portrayed a soul deeply burdened with grief and sorrow. Examining the ring, he found it to be of practically no value. He was all business-like when he was about to say that the most he could offer was fifty cents, when the baby broke out in choking wails. The pent-up feeling of the woman sud- denly burst as she began to sob hysterically, clutching the child to her bosom and murmuring, “My little darling, daddy is gone forever. Where can I get food for you? What will be the outcome? Why has fate been so cruel to me?” The pawnbroker’s heart softened as his eyes filled with tears. He had steeled himself against many pathetic cases, but he had never seen one like this. How could he turn this young mother away in such a large de- pressed city ? Perhaps sending her to her doom. Turning towards the sub- dued woman, he sympathetically and earnestly asked, “When have you two eaten last?” “Last night I fed the baby, I haven’t eaten since yesterday noon.” The pawnbroker was at once chari- table. “Won’t you have something to eat?” “Oh, thank you so much, but if you could be so kind as to give me the money for the ring, please, I would be so grateful to you for it. I would like to pay my room rent and buy the baby proper food and clothing. Then, I may find some work.” “Why don’t you go home to your parents or relatives?” inquired the Irishman. Lowering her head, she answered sadly, “I haven’t any.” Deeply touched, the man thought, “What does the loss of fifty dollars mean when I may save two lives?” Returning from the cash register, he handed the woman the money and murmured, “Good luck to you.” The young mother gratefully smiled at him as she accepted the money and left saying, “May He help you.” The pawnbroker, smiling, re-entered his back room saying to himself, “That deed has opened the pearly gates for you, old man.” A few blocks away from the pawn- shop, the young woman, still carrying the child, climbed into a waiting car and said, “0. K. Charlie, that old fool fell for my stuff like a brick. Let’s try one more place and call it a day. I’m tired of carrying this hired brat.” — Helen Smith, ’37.

Page 12 text:

10 THE SCREECH OWL were very pleased at the proofs and others were keenly disappointed. One of the major catastrophes in the opinion of some is the assignment of a speech for Graduation. How we dread that ordeal of standing on the stage and orating before such a multi- tude of people ! Why, merely the thought of facing those people terri- fies one profoundly, let alone attempt- ing to speak before them. Those worried expressions on some faces can perhaps be attributed to the fact that they are speakers who are in dread of that moment when they will have to rise before the audience. These last weeks are indeed very busy to most of the Seniors. There are numerous final examinations to be studied for earnestly, in hopes that we shall be rewarded by at least a re- spectable final mark. Then there are frequent class meetings and chorus rehearsals to be attended. To many of us this graduation from high school will mark the end of our formal education. The finish of our high school studies does not prevent the acquisition of further knowledge, for everyone continues to learn new things daily throughout life. We who do not anticipate education in higher institutions of learning leave May- nard High with mingled feelings of regret and contentment. Despite the various rebellions against too-long as- signments and week-end homework, I believe it is safe to say that each one of us has fully enjoyed these four years. As the time draws nearer to the actual Graduation, discussions and debates on various phases of the final activities proportionately increase among the different groups of Seniors. Perhaps the three most eagerly anti- cipated events are the Outing, Class Night, and Reception. There is quite a bit of fear and apprehension among many members of the class in respect to their physical condition during that boat trip to Provincetown. Need I say that the most important moment in our lives and a source of pride to our parents is the presenta- tion of our high school diploma, the reward of our efforts in twelve years of school. — Anonymous, ’38. » CLASSICAL OR JAZZ? As one turns the dial on his radio in the evening, different types of music burst forth. Here, a blare of trumpets with the moaning of saxo- phones mingled with the rattling of drums practically deafens one; there, the smooth tempo of the waltz, or a stirring excerpt from an opera, fills the room. The former, a cacophony, that rises from the bottom of the scale to the top in a shrill tone, and then goes down again, is called “jazz.” The latter is a euphony that stays at one tone, slightly higher or lower, and has a melodious sound agreeable to the ear. This is the so-called classi- cal music. Not knowing what opinions others have of these radically different types of music, I will give you mine. Lis- tening to “jazz,” I sometimes wonder how people stand it (now I know why they go crazy) and above all how anyone could compose such trash. When I am doing my homework, it bursts forth and jars me so much that I become sullen and snap at every- body who ventures to speak to me. People say that they seek relaxation by listening to it ; it is a miracle to me that they can find peace amid such a racket. On the other hand classical music has the opposite effect on me. It soothes my nerves and makes me jolly toward everyone in my home. No discord is there to jar one as there is in “jazz.” Listening to such songs as “The Overture to William Tell,” or the lighter “Song of the Musketeers,” puts me in a pensive