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

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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

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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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THE SCREECH OWL 19 Should Men Be Rationed? Gosh, are you kiddin’? All the men that remain ar hidden. One or two 4F’s” still walk the street. Oh goodness, girls, please do be sweet ! Of course there’s Hank and then there’s Harry, But steer clear, girls; they’ll never marry. Rationing men would be quite the thing, For each man thinks He” is a king. Margaret Stewart, ’47 Did You Ever Buy a Hat? Did you ever buy a hat — One not too slim, and not too fat, Not too high, and not too low, With a buckle or a bow, Not too dark and not too light, One that looks divine at night, Not too soft and not too stiff, One that gives a girl a lift, Not too expensive nor too cheap, Just one that makes the girls all weep, Not a style old, nor a style new, Just the hat that’s made for you? All these could not be better; In fact, they are perfect to the letter. Yes, they’re all so cute and dear — - But I’ll wait until next year. Roberta Carlson, ’47 A Fairy Trail I will tell you a story Of a pre -war day And of a lovely maiden That I met upon the way. I was traveling to a distant city On a business trip, you understand, But on the side of the macadam Stood a gorgeous girl from fairy land. Her hair was black as ebony; Such beauty I’ve never seen. Without another glance I could tell She was my fairy-queen. I beckoned to her timidly Because I was ashamed To ask her to accompany me, But to my surprise, she came. The conversation was very light, For I knew not what to say. I only knew from that day on From me she must not stray. After the miles had piled on high, I made a small request. The trip had truly tired me So I stopped a while to rest. During my slumber the thunder rumbled And the lightning lit the place. As I wondered at the sight, I felt cool raindrops on my face. Returning to reality I wiped my eyes and looked around To discover that the car Was nowhere to be found. The frigid mountain winds Chilled me as I lay In a lonely farmyard On a pile of hay. I trudged up to the farmhouse To beg a bite to eat, Or at least escape the storm And warm my frosty feet. I knocked upon the door, But strangely no one replied. I slowly turned the knob And ventured to walk inside. With some logs and paper A warming fire I quickly built. I put on some old dry clothes And went to sleep in a patchwork quilt. As dawn came next morning, I realized my plight — My car and my belongings Had been stolen by beautiful Snow White.