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

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THE SCREECH OWL 7 days he dwelt upon the subject of an arrange- ment by which he could walk around in safety. He thought so intently and so hard that one day something snapped in his mind. Suddenly he jumped up to set madly to work on a com- plicated device. It wasn’t long before he had it finished completely enough to walk out to the fields safely (or so he thought.) High up in his haven the god of lightning laughed louder than he had in a long time when he saw Jonathan strut forth to the fields. Bug saw the dark, menacing clouds roll up and he shouted, Come and get me if you can! The lightning god gathered himself together and with a hissing roar struck with all the blazing fury of hell. He withdrew gloating while Jonathan lay stretched out, dead as a salted herring. Now the lightning god could be happy for another million years, content only to damage property and pester people. When the neighbors found Jonathan, whom they had always regarded as a harmless idiot, they saw on him a complex maze of belts and wires which led to two cables that dragged along the ground. He must have sought to ground himself like a lightning rod, but in his mentally unbalanced state he had forgotten that the lightning in passing through his body to the ground would kill him. So ended the saga of Jonathan Bug. Edward Ledgard, ’44, School in May In the merry merry month of May.” This is a familiar line, but does it signify any cause for merriment to us in Maynard High.? With every coming day the boiling mercury climbs skyward to add blistering heat to our dreamy minds. We ask permission for a sip of water for our parched throats, but are definitely dis- couraged by the teacher’s favorite reply, NO. Our minds are constantly wandering off to the old swimming hole and the cool, bubbling brooks in vacation land. Illustrations in the magazines of Room Twenty carry our thoughts to cool breezes and refreshing ocean sprays. We open our algebra books and the numbers and symbols are transformed into illustrations before our dreaming eyes — illustrations of amusement parks at beaches, cool soft drinks, and a dip in the ocean water. Truly, the month of May is devoted to dreaming and not to efficiency at work. J. Zanceuwicz, ’47. We Freshmen Down in the corridor of Maynard High We Freshmen all trooped together; Every one of us shook in our shoes Despite the warm fall weather. A Senior who was passing by Looked at us and said, Don’t worry too much today, you know, There are many more days ahead. One room was here, another there; We thought we would never remember. We finally got it all straightened out — By this time ’twas November. The days passed quickly after that. With homework and sports and tests. And we began to love our school As well as did the rest. Although we were frightened on that first day, And thought that we would die. We all are full-fledged high-schoolers now As we cheer for Maynard High. Ann Marie Morton, ’47. One Came Back Moral: Davey wasn’t much on killing and robbing. He just wanted to be honest, but sometimes honesty can get a fellow in trouble, and sometimes it can keep him out. Just sit tight, Davey,’’ came the little man’s low words. I’ll have that dough out here before you know it. And when you see me coming outa that doorway, get ready to scoot, fast!

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The Conductor Jonathan Bug was a lightning fiend. When I say fiend, I don’t mean that he was crazy or addicted to murder, but that he had one ob- session — lightning. At the early age of six, he had seen all the livestock on the farm on which he lived wiped out completely by what seemed to be a concen- trated electrical storm. The horses, cows, pigs, and chickens went, along with his father, who had been hurrying to get the cattle into the barn. He vaguely remembered hearing what seemed to be a derisive laugh above the howling wind, just before his father had been struck down. Three years later his mother had been killed by a bolt of lightning during a quick- breaking thunderstorm in which they had no time to seek cover. Although he had been knocked flat, Jonathan was unharmed. Again he had heard the howl of laughter, and from then on he was deathly afraid of lightning be- cause he believed it was out to get” him next. The farm was now abandoned, Jonathan being shipped off to the state orphanage, where he spent the next three years of his life seek- ing cover from thunderstorms in the darkest corners of the cellar in the institution. Finally he ran away to a part of the country where electrical storms were less frequent, and there studied lightning and various ways to stop or arrest it. When he came of age, the farm be- came his, and he moved back, his strategy planned to outwit the lightning menace. The lightning god, high up in his clouds, chuckled to himself as he saw Jonathan fever- ishly erecting lightning rods on his house. Such a display of rods you never saw before in your life: small ones, large fancy ones, all grounded by a maze of wires running into the earth. Thus began the colorful but brief career of Jonathan. The god of lightning saw Jonathan proudly surveying his work, and, gathering the black ominous clouds into a thunderstorm, struck with blazing fury at the house. Jonathan saw the tempest coming and, ducking into the house, laughed at the furious efforts of the lightning to penetrate his elaborate defense of lightning rods. The lightning god at first shrieked with anger, but he soon calmed down and with- drew laughing into his clouds. Since he had been pestering the people of the earth for over a million years, he could afford to wait until Jonathan would slip up. Although Jonathan was highly pleased with his results, he soon became afraid that the rods weren’t enough and he set to work to build more protection. He insulated one room completely, walls, floor, everything with rubber (this, of course, was before the rubber shortage) even to having a rubber curtain to fasten over the windows. He went so far as to wear rubber soled shoes all the time. One day he started thinking that he might be caught out in the fields; so he built a number of shacks about the size of a telephone booth, spacing them at intervals easily accessible from any part of the fields. These also were insulated with rubber and were topped by a large lightning rod. At the first sign of a storm he dashed for a booth and stayed there until it was over. One day Jonathan became too engrossed in the farm work and didn’t notice a storm sneak- ing upon him until almost too late. He had no sooner reached a shelter than a terrific bolt of lightning struck where he had been an in- stant before. That incident irritated Jonathan, and for

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8 THE SCREECH OWL Davey took his hands from the wheel and wiped the sweat on his pants. His face was white. Davey had innocently got himself involved in this, without knowing what Smokey was up to. He knew now! And he also knew that if he started the car and fled, Smokey would probably shoot him down. Smokey had done this thing in twelve states before, and this was the thirteenth. Poor Davey was sick at heart and mostly frightened. The thirteenth, Davey suddenly thought with alarm. Wonder if that means bad luck.” The heavy bark of an automatic broke the silence. One, two, three, maybe four shots. Davey wasn’t too sure. Then running foot- steps approached the car. He glanced through the darkness to see Smokey’s fat frame waddling to him, and in his hand was a small black bag. The other hand held an automatic and that’s what made Davey slink in his seat. Smokey pushed the gun in the back of his neck and slammed the rear door. Get outa here! came his tense words. We gotta scram outa here — had to bump th at dumb flatfoot off!” Davey ' s foot grew heavy on the accelerator, and gears rattled as the big sedan raced through the night. He glanced through the rear-view mirror. Smokey was counting a heap of green bills. One thousand, two thou- sand, three, four, five thousand bucks!” ex- claimed Smokey. Some haul, eh, kid. Just play along with me and life suddenly looks green, like money! Ain’t you glad I made ya come along Smokey hesitated a moment and no answer from the front was heard. Maybe Davey was too interested in his driving, or maybe he hadn’t heard the remark. What’s the matter, kid. ’’ Smokey asked. Lost yer voice . ” Davey’s answer was slow but packed a wallop that Smokey couldn’t mis- take. Did you have to kill the policeman, Smo- key } Did you have to shoot him like you did } Maybe he’s got a wife, a kid. Cu t out that sob stuff!” broke in Smokey’s hard voice. You’d think coppers were good guys to hear you talk.” Smokey leaned closer to Davey. He stopped chewing on his cigar and slid his hand into his coat pocket. Smokey’s face was red, except for the scar across his face. That scar was white with anger. Listen to me, Davey,” he went on, and don’t get me wrong. You can make money if you string along wit’ me. And if you ever cross me, you make nothin’ but the East River — savvy He settled back, stuffed the five grand into the bag, and continued smoking the cigar. Now get driving for those mountains. We gotta reach the state line before morning. And don’t forget this gun is aimed at your lousy head.” Davey’s foot pressed harder on the gas pedal. The engine whirled like an airplane and raced up the winding road. Tires screeched shrilly as they rounded sharp banks on the mountain. Color hadn’t come back to the kid’s face. He could still hear the death chatter of Smo- key’s automatic, the running feet. He could still see a cop sprawled flat on the pavement, maybe with his chest torn open by hot lead. Davey shouted, Look, Smokey!” He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. I — ” he blundered for a second — I think they fry you in this state for murder. I didn’t know what you hired me for. I don’t like it. I’m getting out. You drive the car.” Again he glanced through the mirror. The scar on Smokey’s face stood out like a piece of iron being smelted. The cigar had fallen from Smokey’s open mouth, and his dark eyes reflected murder. Get this straight, you dumb cluck,” stam- mered Smokey. In the first place a witness saw me kill the copper, and my name’s mud if they ever catch me. And I don’t do this for fun. I’ve got five grand, see, and I’m keeping it. Except, of course, the cut you get for the chauffeur’s job!” He laughed as he sputtered the word chauffeur.” Davey said nothing. He was thinking how