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

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12 THE SCREECH OWL discovered his unconscious partner and then pounced on him from out of the shack. In several minutes there was a great deal of noise as the two men scuffled in the dark- ness bumping into crates and boxes and sending them flying all over the place. Shitless was slowly losing way. He was too old for such rough handling. Just as he was on the verge of collapse, a light shown on them from the distance and Flannigan’s shrill whistle rang through the stillness. Shitless took to his feet and dashed around the crates. He heard someone follow, a shot, then a groan. His antagonist didn’t get away. Later, from a hiding place, for he knew every nook and crevice, he saw the police wagon arrive, and the two hoodlums were taken away. Shitless sighed in relief and curled up ready to retire for the night, for he dared not return to his shack, lest the police make further investigations and finjd him and lock him up for taking part in the brawl. Thus everything quieted down, and Shitless fell asleep on the once-more quiet dock. Several months elapsed, and Shitless had already forgotten the episode. He mentioned nothing to his friends, whom he saw but occasionally. He chuckled to himself when he thought of the incident, or by it he had gained a box of candles left by the hood- lums. Now, every night. Shitless looked at the pictures in the newspapers that he found on the dock and around the harbor. One night as he was looking at a new batch of newspapers, he picked one up and exclaimed, “Gosh darn, if that ain’t the man I un- hitched here in ma shack.” He drew nearer to the candle and stared at the picture of a man on the front page beneath which read in large print — MILLIONAIRE SEEKS TRAMP WHO SAVED HIM. Then in smaller print — J. J. STANLEY WILL GIVE $1000 AS REWARD TO THE MAN WHO RESCUED HIM FROM KIDNAP- PERS. MAN URGED TO IDENTIFY SELF. After gazing at it for several minutes, he said to himself, “I wonda why they’s got his pitcha in the paper.” Then interrupting his own thoughts, “Dang thet wind, it’s blown the paper outa the blasted crack.” Crumpling up the paper he was looking at, he pushed it into the crack, then went to bed. — Helen Smith, ’39. A FAREWELL TO SCHOOL LIFE They will never quite leave us, the friends we have passed A thousand sweet memories are holding them fast. The work which we leave and the books that we’ve read The songs that we’ve sung — dear words that we’ve said All these thoughts are forever encased In the haunting chords of memory chaste. In years to come we cannot speak with later friends Of those old times in school to which love lends Such clinging thoughts and mystic haze of soft regret Which we would not, if we could, forget The sweet enchanted sighs of bygone hours at Maynard High. — Helen Smith, ’39 THE EMOTIONLESS LOVER Early each morning by the old west gate she waited patiently for a passing glimpse of him. He was never there at the appointed time; so she went in search of him. As usual, in rain or shine she found him at his work. She stood gazing at him for a long, long time. How handsome he was! He was tall and straight; indeed he was a model if there ever was one. Very daintily she made her way over the fresh planted ground until she reached his side. She hoped she was beautiful, for this was the most important day in her life. She looked at him and gave a deep sigh — she always felt like this when she met him after a long day away from him. Very slowly she leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. He never even turned his head or lifted his derby hat. She rested her head on his manly chest and then parted her lips, sending forth another heavy sigh. Suddenly she heard someone shout, “Betsy, get out of that field!” She looked around and there was farmer Brown standing over her and looking very angry. Could it be that he was jealous of her new-found love ? Oh, but she could never love anyone but him. Farmer Brown was very angry, so much so that he slapped her and spoke harshly to her. And real gentlemen never did or said such things to a lady. She expected her brave hero to come to her defence, but he stood there staring straight ahead. This was too much. She turned away broken-hearted and disillusioned, but never a w’ord of protest passed her lips, for she was just an old Guernsey cow and her lover an old scarecrow. — Edward Donahue, ’39.

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THE SCREECH OWL 11 Mr. Lovell was now on his way toward success. His business in the Woburn district expanded rapidly. Soon he had busses run- ning in Wilmington, Billerica, and Melrose. In 1921, the Eastern Massachusetts Street Railway decided to run street cars in the Woburn district. Mr. Lovell was asked to sell his busses. He replied, “I’ll sell anything but my wife.” The concern was sold to this company for $45,000. At this point in his life Mr. Lovell, then sixty-three, could retire with enough money to enjoy a comfortable and quiet life. But by now, you realize that such a sheltered existence was for other men, not him. Upon hearing of the discontinuation of car lines in Maynard, he decided that he ought to begin a transportation business in this thriving town. His experiment proved to be a great success. He soon reserved the right to operate busses between Maynard and Concord, and Lexington and Woburn. He now has these vehicles running through several towns and cities. In fact, Lovell Bus Lines carry passengers through twenty- six different places every day. Ten of his twenty busses in Weymouth carry the school children to and from school daily. Last year, his busses traveled over a million and a quarter miles. At present, Mr. Lovell has 65 busses and expects to procure more. At this writing Mr. Lovell is eighty-one years old, and still has no thought of retire- ment. He visits his office every day, and follows his schedule with the same vigot - ousness as in his younger days. Yes, again I repeat, we certainly do not have to search in history books for the lives of great men; we have one in our own com- munity by the name of John F. Lovell. Aaron Glickman, ’39. THAT’S LIFE (Series III) Shifless Kentucky was a weather-beaten old man of about forty. Tall and scrawny, he was clothed in misfitted articles that had been given to him by sympathetic house- wives throughout his wanderings. Having left his home in the Kentucky hills when he was young, he learned neither to read nor write and was given the name of “Shifless Kentucky” by his fellow men because he would never look for work. He had roamed through all sections of the country and had settled indefinitely in a certain large coastal city. His temporary sleeping quarters were an old deserted out-of-sight shack on the dock which had evidently been left by rum- runners of recent years. All his friends en- joyed his company, for he was a kind old man who loved nature and fishing above anything else. Shifless found no greater pleasure than to sit on the dock which was piled high with crates, boxes, and mostly rubbish, and fish all day in the warm rays of the autumn sun. Even Flannigan, the cop on the beat, who had known Shifless for several years, regarded him as a harmless sort of tramp, and liked to talk to him about the weather and fishing. This was the way that Shifless spent his days about the har- bor. He would rummage about, picking up bits of newspapers to push into the cracks in his shack, for there were often bleak, foggy nights that were chilly even in this warm climate. This was the life that he led, quiet and peaceful, the kind that he liked. One of those cold, foggy nights about eleven o’clock, Shifless was going to his shack with a bundle of newspapers that he had picked up on the way from the other end of the harbor where he was visiting a fel- lowman. Nearing his shack, he was sur- prised to see the flickering of a candle through the cracks of the shack. Thinking someone had moved in on his territory, he stealthily crept up to the shack and listened. He heard two gruff voices speaking. Com- ing nearer, he looked through a crack. He was puzzled when he saw two men, dressed in flashy clothes, standing before a third, who was bound and gagged and seated on a box. One of the standing men was uneasy and turning to the other said, “Well, Mouse, ain’t ya goin’ afta da stuff yet? I watched da copper, he won’t be aroun’ fer anudder half hour. Gwan, I’ll watch outside.” Then shrugging his shoulders, he went on, “Chees, dis joint is gettin’ me noives.” He blew out the candle, and they both emerged into the thick blanket of fog. Shifless waited until one of them left, then, he slowly crept up behind the other and gave him a blow on the back of the neck. Quickly he groped his way into the shack and lit the candle. The seated man sputtered in trying to say some- thing through the gag. He evidently heard the slight scuffle outside and realized Shif- ess was not one of their party. Several minutes elapsed before Shifless unbound and ungagged the man; then he muttered in a low voice, “Scram, mister, I dunno what ya here fer, but I reckon ya bettra skeedaddle outa here fer ya get inta a pecka trouble.” The frightened man reached into his pockets, then seemed to have changed his mind, and darted out the small door. Not a minute passed when the other man returned from the errand. Shifless waited until that one

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THE SCREECH OWL 13 FISHING A streak, a splash, The song of the reel. He’s away like a flash. What a glorious feel! What does every fisherman love ? A mild blue day ’neath the skies above. By a foam-capped hook in some shady nook. With a rod, a line, a fly, or a hook. A mellow pipe which he smokes serene. As he waits his luck on the bank so green. He does not always his basket fill. But what of that? He goes for the thrill. Fishing is really a royal game. And, take it from me, it’s not so tame. So if you want to keep your youth. Take up fishing, and that is the truth. And when a man is old and gray. He still has something to keep him gay. Though football glories are ever sung. Fishing’s the sport that will keep us young. — Albert W. Koch, ’39. ♦ ♦ BACK TO NATURE I’d rather lie on a fresh green bed Where the sun flits among the willow Sweet-scented grass beneath my head. And my cherished books for a pillow. On the green grass let me lie Amid the country’s peace To see the bigness of the sky. The land that Nature has for lease. I’d rather lie on my fresh green bed Than the softest bed of all And know that heaven has safely led And kept me from any evil that might befall. — Helen Smith, ’39. THE WEARY TRAVELER The day was hot and sultry as a lone figure trudged wearily down the lane. He was a tramp, no doubt, for his clothes were threadbare and worn. In his hand he car- ried a leather case which was badly battered. On and on he walked until he came to a sharp path to the left of the lane. Here he paused, turned, looked around, and then darted along the path to a large group of pine trees. A small brook danced merrily over its bed of small pebbles, often gleaming when some small ray of sunlight passed through the trees. Yes, peace was the word for it. Peace and quiet away from the hum of noisy streets and selfish people. Slowly, very slowly, the man leaned for- ward and drank the fresh pure water of the brook. He paused for breath and again he drank. Like some magic potion it revived him, — made him feel alive and rested. Opening his case, he took from it a violin which he placed carefully under his chin. Slowly he drew the bow across the strings, and soon music was floating over the bub- bling brook, over the tall pines, until it seemed that heaven was smiling down upon this secluded spot. Then the tempo changed, — sad and mourn- ful like some weary soul crying for help and consolation. Perhaps he was thinking of the past — reaching out to remember the lost dreams and hopes. Perhaps the memory of a beautiful wife and child, the exact image of her mother, lying still and quiet, never to speak or laugh again. On and on he played, unmindful of the passing time. The music stopped abruptly, and very carefully he placed the violin in the case. For a short moment he sat in deep thought. Then quietly he rose, picked up his case and hurried away, head high and eyes bright. A few more days, months, years — what did it matter? — For soon he would be with his loved ones. He would be home, never to be lonely or sad again. — Edward Donahue.