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

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broken. She choked back her sobs and was just about to tell her uncle the entire story when a flash of white caught her eye. Peering through a small space between the bars, the sight she saw caused her heart to skip a beat. There in the corral, almost hidden by the clouds of dust he was kicking up, was her beloved horse, pitching, bucking, and kicking, his beautiful chestnut coat covered with sweat and streaked with dark red stains. Jean recognized the man on his back as Jed Steele, the toughest and mean- est cowboy on the ranch. He drove his spurs into Goldy’s heaving sides and cruelly whipped the horse until large welts appeared. All the helpless animal could do was to try to throw this merciless person off his back. But it was no use, for the ruthless cowboy was just as determined as the unharnessed spirit beneath him. When at last Jed dismounted and unsaddled the horse, Jean strode bravely over to the gate and waited for the cowhand to approach. When he did, she told him that it was not necessary to handle Goldy as he had done, but the proud cowboy just sneered and told her to mind her own business. Soon the hands left the corral, for it was time to go out on the range and round up the wild horses. Only Jean and her uncle remained. She remarked on the way Jed had ridden the young horse and her uncle replied by saying that he liked it no more than she, but because he was the best bronc buster of them all, he had been chosen to do the task, although it was far from finished. Finally her uncle also left to join his men and supervise the roundup, and Jean was left alone with Goldy. She whistled softly to him. He acted as though he did not hear her, and it was not until she whistled a second time and held out an appetizing sugar lump that he pricked up his ears and walked hesitantly over to the fence, stretching out his neck for the dainty ' tidbit. He nudged her for another sugar lump, and even though she had none, stayed close beside her. Suddenly a cry of pain swept through the sultry summer air! Quickly Jean ran into the ranchhouse and found her aunt awkwardly slumped in a chair, her face contorted with pain. She thought quickly. There were no telephones within walking or riding distance, and even if there were, there were no horses at the ranch, xcept Goldy, who was not saddle broken. The nearest doctor was in town, ten miles away. She commenced to call for help but hesitated, suddenly remembering that everyone was out on the range. What was she to do. In that one moment the final decision was made. She walked resolutely over to the corral and whistled softly. Goldy, upon whose speed and co-operation depended a matter of life or death, answered that whistle and stood quietly while she saddled him up — a job that four men had barely accomplished less than one half an hour before! Then, praying for the best, she mounted him and off they went. The horse which a grown man could not conquer by force was conquered with love and under- standing by a young girl! Goldy’s smooth, evenly cadenced canter fairly ate up the ground and in no time they had reached town and the doctor had been summoned. Just as Jean was walking Goldy in through the main gate of the ranch, her uncle and the cowhands rode up. Their faces expressed more surprise than any amount of words ever could hope to do when they saw this young girl fearlessly riding the bronc.” Simultaneously Jean’s father rode in, and upon hearing the entire story, told his daughter that if she would study especially hard at the beginning of next year, she would not have to go to scfiool this summer after all. Then Jean’s uncle, saying that he had a little bit to add, told his niece that he was presenting her with the horse she had always wanted. Everyone rejoiced at this wholehearted presentation, and Goldy seemed to understand, too, for he pressed his cold muzzle gently against the cheek of his mistress. To Jean, clinging tightly to Goldy’s soft neck, this certainly was The Dream That Came True! Norma Martinsen, ’ ' 50 Out of My Depth While ordinarily, I am able to grasp at least the basic fundamentals of a conversation, I always am far over my depth when the conversation swings to that favorite topic of American Youth: generally cars, more specifically hot rods.” Though I do not consider myself a complete idiot, that seems to be the opinion formulated by my auto- motive knowledge. And because I don’t light cigar- ettes with spark plugs, or use motor oil for sun tan cream, I become classed as that lowest of the low, that untouchable miscreant, the pedestrian. Oddly enough, however, the conversation starts off with almost a semblance of sanity, which disproves even more what is to follow. Generally it starts with a simple innocent question such as Whose car were you in last night?”, Who owns that black Ford?” or some similar seemingly innocent question. Then however, the diabolical hold which the auto- mobile possesses and easily maintains on the minds (ll)

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liis homework, he would practice at every chance he found. After ten years of steady practice he became an accomplished pianist. Now to turn to the rich boy, named Richard. He played the piano, but only when he wasn’t going out with girls in one of his cars his father gave him. And after ten years he could play the piano too; not bad, but not very good either. One day he saw Paul with a beautiful blonde named Regina, and naturally he wanted her, the vil- lain; the only trouble was that she liked Paul. Richard decided to duel with Paul, the prize, of course, being Regina. They arranged to have the duel on a talent program with both competing on the pianos. Richard played and the people were polite, so they clapped a little. Then Paul played, and he played so well that the people stopped the show by their applause. So it’s obvious who won, isn’t it? Paul committed suicide. Richard won. How could he lose ? His father owned the network, and he was also sponsor of the talent show. However, the final deci- sion was up to an impartial judge, who was Richard’s father. There isn’t anything that’s a sure bet. Warren Garlick, ’49 ♦ The Dream That Came True Well, Jean, it looks as if you’ll have to attend classes this summer so that you’ll be able to go into your second year of high school next September. I hope by now that you’ll know better than to be think- ing about those silly old horses all the time instead of doing your work.’’ The eyes of the young girl filled with tears as an elderly man said these words, after glancing from the report card he held in his hand into her pleading face. She thought of the many times she had visited her uncle’s horse ranch, located about five miles from her home. How weary she became and how long that road seemed to be, but she plodded along, feet burn- ing and tired muscles aching. In her heart she was not tired, but very happy, for she knew each step carried her closer to the large ranch with its rambling buildings and spacious stable. She could hardly refrain from running when she came in sight of the large farm, its buildings gleaming and shining, resplendent in the bright morning sun- light. The brood mares with their foals and colts were contentedly grazing while a few playful ones would nip and kick their mothers and fellow play- mates. All the while the magnificent stallion. Firefly, would watch over his herd of mares and colts as a shepherd watches over his flock, his proud head set on a beautifully crested neck, always alert, always searching, for the dangers which lurk on the plains and in the hills are many. All these things filled Jean’s heart full of happiness and joy, and the many miles of walking would soon be forgotten. She would sit on the gate and watch the frisky little colts galloping around and around the field. A certain little chestnut colt, whom Jean had grown to love from the first time she had ever seen him, would always be far ahead of the others in their wild races around the pasture. He would gallop as fast as the wind across the field, jump the wide stream at the end which flowed merrily down from the nearby hills, and return to where he had started long before the others had even gone half way. To Jean, sitting on the fence, he was a dream come true. How often she had sat in school dreaming of having a horse like this one! But to dream about something and have that dream come true are two entirely different things, and when she had first seen Goldy, as she had named him, she knew he was her dream in reality, although it seemed impossible for her to have anything as wonderful as this. Every day Jean perched on the gate and whistled for Goldy, and the little colt, hearing the familiar call, would trot over to the fence. There was always a large lump of sugar and a sweet carrot waiting for him. Many times he would impatiently stamp his tiny hoofs and give Jean a friendly nip. It didn’t take long for these two, a young girl and a little chestnut colt, to become very attached to each other. Goldy would follow Jean wherever she went, even braving high fences to be with his mistress. Then one day, as usual, Jean ran over to the fence and whistled for Goldy. She listened intently for the shrill whinny the little colt always had for her. But there was no answer today. She whistled again, this time a little more impatiently. Still no answer. She closely scrutinized the herd of horses, but nowhere could she see the glossy brown coat and flashy white stockings which identified the frisky little chestnut. The bright, sunny day suddenly became very cold and gloomy to the young girl standing at the gate. Shep, the ranch watchdog, walked over to her side and understandingly placed his paw upon her arm. Jean pushed him gently aside and ran in search of her uncle. When she found him, he was seated on the top rail of the corral watching a young colt being ( lO )

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ot youtli asserts itself, generally in the form of de- moniacal, incoherent ravings of and about strange unheard of objects, seemingly from another land. Fiendish enough names they are too, outstanding among them being such insane phrases as straight pipes,” cut outs,” high compression heads,” dual intakes,” and so forth. Blood boils like a hot radiator, exhaust smoke probably inhaled while puttering amid four-wheeled pets courses forth from nostrils, and the pungent odor of gasoline vapor saturates the air. When my tortured ears can no longer stand this ceaseless babble, nor my nose the stench, I unobtrusively slip away, a misfit of the mechanical age, a poorer (in health) but wiser man, humbly asknowledging the automobile as my master. Gerald Kavanagh, ’49 A Visitor The wind shrieks — the windows rattle incessantly. The loose boards creak and groan, throwing A haunted effect over all. How dark the night, how pale the light. Cast from this crescent moon. But hark! A tap, tap is heard at the door. Hear it? It is distinguished clearly from the whiste of the wind through the leafless trees. And a voice we now hear moans, Open up, open up! 1 am the coming of winter.” Frances D’Amico, ’49 A Man Can ' t Win The town clock had just struck five, and Richard Bartlet, with his coat-collar turned up and his hands dug deep in the pockets of his tweed trousers, was going home to supper. He had had a hard day at the office and was still trying to figure a way of posing the question to his wife. Should he tell her frankly, or ask her nicely? Of course she would be disap- pointed, perhaps even angry. He crossed the street, kicked at a small stone, and continued on his way. Richard was a man nearing his forties, but because of long years of hard work in order to keep up to the extravagant demands of his wife, one could easily mistake him for fifty. Indeed, his hair had long passed the greying stage. .ind now it was thinning out around his ears. He was tall, heavily built, and one might even call him handsome, if one quick look was all that was given. However, he must have possessed some charming qualities in order to claim a wife like Emily. Emily was likewise tall, dark, and extremely grace- ful. Black hair and green eyes seem to be a danger- ous combination. If one did not know her, they would expect her to be shy, calm, and queenly. But to Richard, who had known her for the past eight years, her ability to wrap him around her little finger, slightly irritated him. Richard wanted a vacation. Florida. For many years now, he had wanted to visit there, and now a group of men from the office were going and had in- vited him along. All he had to do was ask his wife. He snapped his fingers and said aloud: Darn it! Why should she mind? How many times has she gone on vacations ? two, three, and four weeks at a time? Why, she’s been to New York, Maine, Canada, and California during the past year. Well, now it’s my turn. I’ll just tell her frankly that I think I need a vacation. After all, a man has to have some fun once in a while.” He walked up Bradd Street, took the corner at Elm, and headed for his house, with renewed courage. Emily had lit the fire when he arrived, and its flames cast weird shadows on the walls. Sitting in his favorite armchair, slowly smoking a pipe, a gift from Emily on his last birthday, Richard finally ac- cumulated enough courage to say, You know Em, I’ve been thinking.” Emily raised an eyebrow and threw a glance in his direction. Oh?” You know, I think I need a vacation. We both have worked very hard these past few months and I think a change would do us both a lot of good.” He breathed more freely now that the worst part was over. He was able to elaborate now. Leaning back in his chair, he sighed heavily. Florida is wonderful at this time of year Emily. Ah I can see it all now . . . palm trees, blue skies, peace and quiet . . . yes, it’s wonderful . . . well hon, what do you say?” Before he could finish, Emily had bounded over to him, threw her arms around his neck and cooed, Oh Rich darling, I think that’s a wonderful idea, - - but gee, do you think you’ll be able to take care of the house while I’m gone?” ( 12 ) Frances D’Amico, ’49