Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 27 tering limbs to dream, especially on the poet’s thought: “The groves were God’s first temples.” Indeed no better place of worship could be found than in the space beautified by God’s own hand and peopled with His own trees. Little do we realize how careless and forgetful people are toward the preservation of these landmarks wherein the lumber is hewn for our homes and for the furniture within our homes. How indifferent we are when we see someone trampling down a little root which would have some day turned into a sizable tree mayhap, for “Great oaks from little acorns spring.” I can remember how four summers ago in the quaint village in the White Mountains, Intervale, I passed through a most beautiful grove of pines. I made inquiries as to their name and learned that the spot was appropriately called “The Cathedral Pines,” due to the beauty of the grove and the soft music vibrated by the pines. Three weeks ago as I was reading a daily paper, I spied the article “Famous ‘Cathedral Pines’ to be destroyed.” Upon reading the article I found the cause to be due to the sudden demise of the owner, his death coming upon him so quickly no will was made. There was a dispute among his heirs and in order to settle the estate, the pines were to be confiscated and the land used for com¬ mercial purposes. In truth the “Cathedral Pines” occupy a space of about one hundred and fifty acres and I learned that a movement is now afoot among tourists and nature lovers who realize the beauty of God’s work to contribute money to buy the famous grove because of its appealing loveliness. The tree has been a help to mankind from century to century, playing its part even in modern times in the recent World War to camouflage and hide our guns and equipment. In celebration of this gift of God Kilmer enkindles ecstasy in the heart of mankind with his lines: “I think that I shall never see A poem as lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast. A tree that looks at God all day And lifts its arms as if to pray. A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair. Poems were made by fools, like me, But only God can make a tree.” Harold Moran, 1923. CHARMS OF GOOD LITERATURE. Shakespearian Sonnet. When summer days are bright and warm and fair, I gather in my arms these books of mine, And in the shady garden hammock there I quietly and peacefully recline; Or wander by the river’s sparkling brim To find some peaceful, unknown, lonely nook And there beneath the cool, deep shadows dim, Peruse and dream o’er my beloved book.

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26 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. together but his strength of which he had always been proud had deserted him and he fell to the floor in a swoom. It was morning and a beautiful one. The sun streamed in through the windows as Jack rose unsteadily to his feet and muttered through clenched teeth, “I’ll solve this mystery or die in the attempt” and with a weary smile added, “and I’ve made good progress toward the latter.” On examining the ground near the well he found a button which under pressure caused a bell in the chateau to sound. Jack determined to search the well and after it had been drained al¬ most to the bottom crept down its slippery sides holding his handkerchief over his nostrils. Suddenly, with a cry of surprise and fear he beheld the body of an old man half rotted away amidst shining pieces of gold and silver. His brain was in a whirl but taking courage he rubbed his eyes to make certain he was not dreaming and touched the hand which lay nearest him and watched it dissolve into dust. All atremble he crept up the well and into the house where he began his search for papers which would disclose the identity of the dead man. Finally he found a book labelled, “The Personal Diary of F. M. alias Monsieur Frontignan.” After reading a few pages the mystery was solved. Left alone in the world, deserted by his wife, Monsieur Frontignan had hidden his wealth in the well and lest it should be stolen had secreted the bell in the chateau to warn him of any attempt at robbery. But on a visit to the well he had suffered from an attack of some disease, perhaps a shock, and had fallen into the well, where he had rotted away with his treasure, polluting the water and poisoning the young couple who had innocently partaken of it. A strange feeling came over Jack as he read on and on. The records in the diary set his brain in a whirl. He felt himself aging years in minutes. Then with a strange suddenness the truth of what he read penetrated into his mind and heart and with a heart-rending cry of despair he threw himself face don- ward on the floor crying, “Oh, father, why did you have to beam your burden alone, afraid even to show your name! Oh, Father, Father! Why!” But he did not continue ; the shock had been too great for him in his weak¬ ened condition. He felt his heart shattered into a thousand pieces, his legs and arms stiffened, his respiration grew heavy, his eyes closed and in a moment he had joined his beloved father in eternity. Inez E. SanClemente,, 1923. TREES. “Essays are written by fools, like me, But only God can make a tree.” Of all the beauties of nature none seem more conspicuous to me than the tree. From the earliest days the tree has served as a shelter and protection for mankind. Adam and Eve found comfort in the shade cast by the trees of Paradise. Robinson Crusoe found shelter in the branches of a lofty tree from the hungry beasts of the island celebrated by Defoe. Washington found a suit¬ able place to give commands to his troops under the famous elm at Cambridge. I, too, find pleasure in pausing in a grove of trees and lying underneath their shel-

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28 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. But if the days are wet and drear and cold And by the fire indoors I needs must stay, Among great deeds, brave knights and tales of old, With kings and queens I wile the time away; So while good tales and poems beside me lie, Let tempests loudly wail, for what care I ? Flora M. Youngson, 1923. WANDERLUST. Beyond the East the rising sun, Beyond the West the sea, And in them both the wanderlust That will not let me be. My dreams soar high in winged flight; In brightest fantasy I roam and roam an endless path, Nor rest, though weary be. I hear the ocean’s luring call, And when the angry waves Beat up against the rocks and shore, The salt air then I crave. The road, I know not . where it winds, Nor where the river goes; The gypsy blood pervades my veins, And through them quickly flows. The blue hills seem to beckon me To lands of mystic charm, To lands where lotus blossoms sweet Give out their healing balm. And now to Egypt’s deserts wide, I wend my joyful way, By camel’s easy, graceful stride, And the howdah’s awkward sway. To classic Greece my steps now turn, Where lakes in silvery sheen Abound midst vales of palm and pine, And fairy woodlands green. To smiling, sunny, dauntless France, Whose old chateaux and towers Seem dull and grey, yet proud of mien From out their frames of flowers.