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

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TH E SCREECH OWL 17 he did not realize what fate had befallen his friend. With every remaining ounce of energy left in his body, he used his own hands for paddles to reach the remote shore. Hour after hour he paddled, getting weaker each moment, but the thought of safety kept him going. Sud- denly as it appeared, the lighthouse had van- ished. His imagination was playing tricks on him. Thoughts of cold water, delicious foods, and a comfortable bed danced in his mind. These also disappeared quickly. Hopeless and exhausted, he fell upon his dead companion. The sun was retiring for the night, leaving the sky once again in a coat of darkness. Hours later the rays of morning were com- ing up from the east, breaking the dreary dark- ness with bright dancing beams. As he looked down, the sun could see a young man on a small tramp ship straining his eyes to see the strange object floating about four hundred yards from the boat. Advancing closer, the men made out the figures of two sleeping men upon a small, crude raft. Reaching it as soon as possible, he saw he was too late. Both men were dead. Old Sol nodded his head wisely and sadly. The sea had once more taken its spoil of hu- man lives. Marian Bell, ’45 ❖ Success I struggle on and upward to attain the peak Of the mountains named Success” I so tire- lessly seek, The path is rocky, the way is dim, My only hope is to have faith in Him. No goal is worthier; God’s by my side. How can I fail with such a guide? Shirley Bain, ’45 For These Things That I live in a country that is free, That our land is a democracy, That I do not live across the sea, For this I am thankful. For the birds whose gay songs fill the air, For the right to speak freely without a care, For the right to join in public prayer, For these I am thankful. For the rivers, lakes, mountains, and hills, For the land that the farmer plows and tills, For the flowers and trees and all the thrills Of living, for these I am thankful. Ann Marie Morton, ’47 Franklin Delano Roosevelt I disagreed with his views, I argued against him, I said I disliked him, Why then did I feel my heart sink when I heard of his death? Shirley Bain, ’45 Cycle of Life Birth Spring — Life begins anew With every tiny bud That shoots through The earth, to grow to glorious heights, Childhood Summer — Bud grows, stalk forms, Flowers; in beauty blooms The young plant. Life’s storms Have yet to hit the young life. Adult Life Fall — Turning leaves Of every hue; red, gold, Some falling, some piled in eaves, Others, still against a fading sky of blue. Old Age Winter — Last bit of life Defying North Wind’s might, Weary plants give up the strife For sleep, to rest in eternai night. Isabella Koski, ’47

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16 THE SCREECH OWL but still hesitant, he slipped into the familiar place. It was Billy, but a tearful, huddled form, so unlike his former pal. At the sound of foot steps, Billy glanced up, recognized him, but said nothing. To Melvin this was somewhat of a surprise. But at four years of age, there was never a great exchange of words, and they sat side by side, united by a touch of sorrow. Through a space of a few minutes, Billy con- tinued his sobbing, now and then lifting his fist, cold and red, to brush away the half-frozen tears. Here was real cause to run away from home; now he’d have company. He jabbed Billy on the arm. Wanna run away with me?” No answer. He sat still and then tried again. They don’t want me, and maybe your Daddy doesn’t want you.” Then Billy glanced at Melvin, gulped once, and fairly shouted, He does so, and I want him, and Daddy has to go away to war and leave us!” A fresh outburst of tears prevented him from continuing. So Melvin sat and stared at Billy’s anguish, and to his four-year-old mind came thoughts of his daddy; not of the whippings, but of the good times they had had together. In his silent company he sought to comfort Billy. His chum felt this, and they sat in the gathering gloom, quiet, two little men of the world. Then Melvin stood up. Gotta go now,” he muttered. See you tomorrow.” Partly recovered, Billy answered, Come in the morning.” Thus they parted, with little said. Their language was one of silent understanding; a steady flow of words wasn’t necessary. Melvin made home in record time, his mind constantly on Billy’s sorrow. With a cheerful greeting to his mother and dad, he washed up and presented himself for the evening meal. Who said anything about running away from home? Best place in the world, and even a four-year-old knows it. Gladys Novicki, ’4 5. Toll of the Sea The sun was coming up from the east, break- ing the dreary darkness with his bright dancing rays. As he looked down, he saw miles and miles of calm peaceful water. It was difficult for him to imagine the tranquil scene below had been an inferno of fury and destruction that lashed and destroyed ever) thing in its reach three days ago. Looking over to the south, he saw the remains of a pleasure yacht; pieces of wood were floating; a scrap of red cloth lay blazing in the morning light, and an empty box tossing gently with the waves com- pleted the scene of destruction. The sea had once more taken its spoil of lives and material. As he came closer to earth, the sun glanced away to the north to see if the two men who survived the catastrophe still remained on their small, crude raft. One of them was just open- ing his eyes Wake up, Joe!” he cried weakly. His com- panion did not move. Might as well let him sleep. There’s nothing to stay awake for. I don’t mind not having any food, but I wane water so badly. We must be near land! We have to be ! Oh, wake up, Joe ! I have to talk to someone,” he yelled as loudly as his parched throat would allow him. Though he shook his friend, Joe remained motionless. In despair he stood up and looked at the horizon, straining his eyes to pierce the end- less expanse of water. The sun had reached his peak, hurling his fiery rays to earth, but neither man seemed to notice. The survivor remained erect for a long time, silent and motionless. Suddenly an expression of joy spread over his face. He closed his eyes and looked again and again. Turning quickly, he flung himself beside his sleeping compan- ion. Wake up, Joe! We’re safe! We’re safe!” he exclaimed excitedly, Look. ' There is a lighthouse over there.” We’ll be there in sev- eral hours! Wake up!” Joe didn’t stir. He never would again. Joyous at the sight of the distant lighthouse,

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18 THE SCREECH OWL Soldier ' s Last Dream He could feel the cold stinging His already frost-bitten cheek, But he didn’t seem to mind it, As he peddled his papers each week. He loved to rake the leaves up And gather them in piles, For after supper there’d be a bonfire That could be seen for many miles. But the bright leaves of the season Didn’t escape his mind, For he remembered each gay, cheerful one, Its particular shape and kind. But now the scenes were fading, The pleasant fall pictures gone, As the soldier breathed his last On the battlefield at dawn. Patricia Higgins, ’47 An Appreciation of English Lit Miss Field says, Read your English, I won’t give much to you ; Just read from chapter twenty-one To chapter twenty-two.” We groan and count the pages, Some twenty odd or more, And glare, and stare, and shuffle Our feet upon the floor. And then that night at supper, We tell our sorrowful tale Of how we have to study Our English Lit. — or fail. We put the book before us, Skimming through its pages, Wondering why English literature Has to have so many ages. We read about King George the 1st, 2nd, or 3rd, I can’t remember yet, But anyway he — oh, my gosh! How quickly I forget! Finally we struggle through, And decide to take a rest, But find we only worry If tomorrow holds a test. The next day — you can count on this, A test is given out, But the questions that she asks You don’t even remember reading about. And then a chum of yours decides That you should surely know That while you slaved alone last night, Your boy friend took another to the show. This helps a lot in thinking, Your brain is in a whirl, Knowing if you’d gone out last night, There’d be no other girl. Suddenly the bell rings out, You pass your papers in, Hoping against fading hope, That your guesses still can win. No need to say, you flunk the test; You studied all in vain; You don’t know whether to blame the book Or just your dim-wit brain. You hate the world, you hate the school; You hate the well-known golden rule; You hate the teachers, hate the books; Hate the locker with all its books; You hate women, you hate men; You hate what’s coming, you hate what’s been; You hate the clock upon the shelf ; But what’s worth more, you hate yourself. Shirley Peterson, ’45