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

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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

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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

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THE SCREECH OWL 11 mood. I am able to concentrate on one subject much better, but mostly, in listening to these, I think of various people who have ventured in little known parts of the world, of their knowledge of the people, and how the country appeals to me. It makes me feel as if I could learn everything that I would like to know. I’d rather listen to this kind of music, or else to the songs of the Indians or Africans, as they are beaten out on drums, instead of jazz music. I do not mean to say that all jazz music is bad, but at least three- fourths or more is, while three- fourths of classical music is good. Therefore, I’ll take one-quarter jazz and three-quarters classical for my musical program. — Anonymous. WAKE, WAKE, WAKE (with sincerest apologies to Tennyson) Wake, wake, wake From thy stone blank stare, 0 me! And oh would that my pen could scribble The answers that ought to be 1 0 well for the studious boy. Who can write away with great ease! And well for the teacher’s pet Who will never receive any D’s! But the fleeting time goes on And still — still my paper is blank. Oh, if I had only studied well And did not on my eyesight bank ! Wake, wake, wake. For it is over, yes it be — But the mem’ry of that exam I flunked Will ever come back to me. — Sylvia Glickman. ANDY WILSON DOES A GOOD TURN Jake Johnson and I had been pros- pecting to gether for five years and we were clebrating it on the night when all the trouble started. We were drinking Jake’s special brew which was, I think, about eighty-five per cent alcohol, when we started an argu- ment over who was to have the last of what was in the bottle. Jake’s gun went olf, neatly cutting a deep groove in my left arm. My only defense was the bottle, which I threw at him send- ing a shaip piece through his eye and piercing his brain. In a drunken stupor, Jake did not last long and he died about an half hour later. I was just starting to bury him when Sheriff Cowell of Mustang Coun- ty arrived on the scene and quickly snapped handcuffs on me. I was taken to the county prison where I was thrown in a cell to await my trial. Now there is a newcomer in the story in the person of Andy Wilson who, as it was expressed by Tommy Hutchins, was a bit “tetched.” Never- theless, he was well liked around town and was noted for never telling a lie. The day after my arrest, I happened to see him through my cell window and I called him over. I whispered something to him and he nodded his head in agreement. The next day at the trial, I pleaded that it was in self- defense that I killed Jake but the prosecuting attorney asked for a witness. “Call Andy Wilson,” I said and Andy marched up to take the sand. He testified that what I said was true and because of his renown and the bullet wound in my arm as evidence, I was set free. But no one ever knew why I sud- denly was six hundred dollars poorer and Andy Wilson h ad that same amount in the First National Bank. — Donald Lent.