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

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that terrible disguise. The picture, however, wasn’t half as shocking to him as what was printed under- neath it! The P.T.A. asked the co-operation of the seniors in the abolishment of the annual Freshman initiation. The seniors decided to start the Freshman-Senior re- lationship off by choosing a Queen of the Freshman Class. Since this new girl was first seen this morn- ing, we knew at once she would take the prize, so we took this picture of her entering school this morning! We also took the honor of presenting a wardrobe of Queen ' s dresses, to the sister of the winner, Judy Black. We are quite sure there isn’t a prettier queen in the freshman class, and we are also sure Will will never be mistaken for a she” again!” The Photographers of The News Will ripped the paper to tiny pieces, then sat down and tried to figure a way out of this, because he knew he’d never live it down. How Will wished he had been initiated! I mean, of course, the regular way. It might have hurt him, but at least he wouldn’t have been the talk of the town” for a week! Barbara Crottv, ’54 Youth and Popular Music Popular music is a vital part of the teenager ' s life. Although most adults think it is a waste of time and labor, if you stop to think about it, you will find out why the teenagers like it so well. Popular music will fit into the various moods of the teenagers and will also help him to express his feelings. Depending on the mood he is in, when a teenager picks a song on the jukebox, he has a choice of anything from a slow dreamy ballad to a lively tune with a jump beat. If he feels like celebrating, you can expect some loud, jumpy tune. If he has just had a fight with his favorite girls, you can expect some romantic song with a haunting melody. One reason why adults don’t like popular music is because it never lasts very long. A song that is pop- ular one week may be forgotten by the next. This is due to the teenager’s ever changing likes and dis- likes. Just as a fad lasts until the novelty is worn off, so popular music lasts until a new favorite is uncov- ered. Popular music is very cleverly put together. It is pleasing to the ear, and easy to listen to. There is a melody to suit every teenager’s taste. The beautiful lyrical ballads and the catchy novelty tunes are the works of artists in their field. ( 26 ) Listening to records, whether on the radio, the phonograph, or the jukebox, occupies a great deal of the teenager’s time. Popular music is an integral part of his education, as well as one of his favorite pas- times. Barbara Mitzcavitch, ’52 Our English Language Our English Language is wonderful, ’tis true, It’s spoken and written by quite a few. But sometimes it’s hard to understand, This language of ours, which is really so grand. Now wait just a minute and you will see, What I mean when I say, It’s like Greek to me.” A girl is often called a gal, But who would call a curl a cal ? A big boat is a battleship, But whose big coat is a cattleship ? A small house is a hut, Then why isn’t a small mouse a mut? Two or more louses are called lice, But who calls their blouses blice? The plural of tooth is teeth, Then why isn’t the plural of youth yeeth? A fancy name for mother is mater, But who calls their brother, brater? A young cow is a calf, But whose young plow is a plaf? A joke is sometimes known as a jest, Then why isn ' t a poke a pest? A dollar bill is called a buck, But who ever called a hill a huck? About these peculiarities, there’s nothing I can do, So I guess I’ll have to accept them as true, Our English is really wonderful, but don’t you agree That it should be simpler for people like you and me? Janice Morgan, ’52 Tippy Black and white and just pint size Sleek and slim with dark brown eyes, This priceless jewel I would not trade For all the money that was ever made. His pleading whine when sweets he sees Makes me give in instead of tease. Chasing cats is his delight Until the feline turns to fight. To school with me each day he walks — I only wish that he could talk! Priscilla Woodbury, ' 51

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The Mistake There was great excitement in the Brown ' s house- hold, because finally the long-awaited day had come, the day that Marie, the only child was to be married. Amid the tooting of horns, ringing of the tele- phone, and all the excitement, Mrs. Brown sat think- ing of all she had done to make this day the happiest one in her daughter’s life, and of the many hours she had spent shopping and preparing for this big occasion. Finally, when she couldn ' t wait any longer, she went up to her daughter’s room, expecting to see her dressed in her beautiful gown, but instead, as she entered the room, Marie was crying bitterly. Mrs. Brown tried to comfort her daughter, but it was useless, and amid her sobs she told her mother that on the way home from the hairdressers, she had seen Bob, her future husband, in a jewelry store with Helen, carefully placing a string of pearls about Helen’s neck. As Mrs. Brown was trying to explain to Marie that it must have been some kind of a mistake, the doorbell rang. It was the delivery boy with a pack- age for Marie. As she opened it a little card fell from the package which said, A string of precious gems to a more precious girl. With Love — Bob.” As she read this, tears came to her eyes, for she realized how foolish she had been in doubting Bob’s love for her. And as she walked down the aisle of the church, with her father, she glanced down at the beautiful string of pearls which hung about her neck and with much love in her heart joined Bob at the altar. Barbara Prosper, ’52 Problem of the Year Tis a nignt before midyears such as you’ve never seen— My desk is all cluttered, my complexion turned green. I’ve studied and crammed as never before, I can barely see, my eyes are so sore. Time is just flying, faster than ever, If I capture a C” I’ll think myself clever. It is already midnight, Mom is in bed. But me, I am studying. Oh ! My poor head ! ! Latin’s before me, my most dreaded test, B ut all I can do is to try my best. English is cinchy! (Or at least that’s my hope) . But to get through with Algebra I’ll have to take dope. ( Science frightens me, for I’ll never know What makes Mr. Lerer’s favorite bacteria grow. Or care about lenses, short, thick, or thin — (Don’t know which way I’m going or where I have been) . I’ve waited and waited till the very last moment, And now look, I’m in complete mental torment. Well! One o’clock! May as well turn in, Myself, plus my pencils, my books, and my pen. Otherwise tomorrow I’ll sleep through each test I take — Then I can imagine what a high mark I’d make! Sandra Stammers, ’54 Initiation The Brooks High School freshmen had tradition- ally been initiated ever since the days their parents had been students there. It was the first day of school and you know what that meant for fourteen year old Will Black, a fresh- man ! Every other morning Will had hurried through breakfast, so he’d get to school on time. This morn- ing, however, although he was just as late as ever, but a little more nervous, he ate so slowly that his mother almost called the doctor, fearing he was sick. After convincing his mother he was not sick, he ran upstairs to his room where he put on a disguise. He made a cute girl ! For once he appreciated his sister Judy. She had given him a dress and wig so he could go to school incognito, and avoid initiation! This disguise would have been perfect if he had only remembered to roll up his pants legs. They hung 21 2 inches below the dress. He ran to school feeling sure his identity was care- fully concealed, but he became very uneasy when the seniors snickered as he passed ! When he reached school he went in through the girls’ door, slipped through the corridor almost un- noticed, and managed to hide his disguise before any- one saw him at his locker. The fear of being recognized overcame him early in the morning, for he knew what they did to the timid, here at Brooks H. S. ! Will got home without the disguise, or should I say almost got home! When he reached his front walk. Red, the senior football hero, gave him a big smile and handed him the evening paper. Right on the front page of The News” was his picture! It was taken, evidently, just as he was entering school in 25 )

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Slave Three minutes to two, juust two minutes to run from Acton Street to the noted company of J. J. New- berry’s on Main Street. As I pant along, I wonder if perhaps contracting a cardiac condition is worth $.50 an hour? Then on the other hand I think of the debts I have acquired that made me dream of prison bars before Mr. Newberry took me in to straighten hosiery, clean understock, unpack crockery, with much sneez- ing and coughing in the accompanying hay, and oc- casionally to ring up ten cents on the cash register. What a thrill ! Just inside the door, and there goes the clock strik- ing two. Now to achieve the miracle of getting my coat into the girls’ room without being seen by any- one. Holding my breath as I walk so as not to be heard exhaling, (I’ll tell you this is no easy job after running a quarter of a mile without stopping) , I make my dangerous way to the girls’ room. By the time I arrive there my face is in such a purplish hue that people are beginning to stare at me with quizzical looks. Standing at the further end of the store I bellow, I’m here, Catherine!” Of course, poor Catherine doesn’t know who I” is, so this results in quite a bit of screaming back and forth before the matter is unraveled. My day of slavery begins. First, I am stationed be- hind the candy counter, but after ten or fifteen min- utes of shoveling out confectionery to hungry people who have probably just come from some movie where the hero and the heroine starved to death for love, all this work being done under the watchful eyes of the manager, he decides that I am being altogether too generous with each order. Thus, I am ushered to the back of the store where the yard goods look as though five or six dogs had fought over them. A counter near it contains the toys. With everything arranged, I find myself with empty hands. My groping hands light on a yoyo, the art of which always dumbfounds me. Well, practice makes perfect! Involved in untangling myself from the yoyo, my attention is caught by a piping voice, the owner of which seems to be a grubby hand holding a little soldier. ' ' What the cost of this makes?” After a quick translation, calling on my past days of experience with children, I answer, It makes cost ten cents!” This intelligent conversation is interrupted by the appearance of a towering example of womanhood, who soundly applies her hand to the unseen b ody. An ear-splitting cry rocks the foundations of the build- ing as the screaming child is dragged through the imposing portals of the store. By now the hands of the old clock on the mill have crept up to four o’clock and I leave my cage on winged feet, running to make home for supper. Then to meet a barrage of baby carriages out for the warm air and of youngsters on bicycles on the sidewalk. (Where they shouldn’t be blocking my way). Promptly at three to five I rush out the door, as though I had been given a kick, and run all the way down town. Back again I arrive at J. J.’s, politely to sell socks of all kinds for the rest of the night, and even some ribbon to a woman who ordered me to measure it by wrapping it around her neck. At last it is nine and work is done for another day. With gay adieus to all, Marion, Bobbie, and I rush to Pizza House to get a hamburger to refresh our- selves. The hour of nine o’clock affects me as digitalis does a chronic invalid. Veronica Janulewicz, ’51 ( 27 )