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

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22 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. To temper this feverish haste, to ease the utter exhaustion it brings to nourish the poverty-starved souls, we need the poet. We need his clear vision, his calm philosophy, his character, tempered by his sorrows and trials and we need the soothing sounds of his various rhythms to ease our wearied souls. We need the poet to stand in front of us and absorb all the rude shocks of the world, and after he has done so to give them to us in a milder form clothed in beauty, and moderated by his own clear, sympathetic understanding. For these things we need the poet; and as long as civilization exists, he will not be lacking. Civilization began in him, grew with him, reached its glory with him, and will crumble into dust when he is no more. Harry Broudy, ’24. THE GULL. Sonnet. From out the canopied heaven soars the gull, A swiftly growing spot on yonder sky, Rudely piercing the rolling ocean’s lull With a defiant note and screaming cry. Now racing wildly with the roaring gales, He dizzily hovers o’er the billowing seas. His silv’ry pinions gleam like distant sails, As gracefully he beats the salty breeze. With glassy, bead-like eyes he scans the tide, Madly careens and like a comet shoots from his flight Into the seething froth. Now satisfied With laden beak, strives for the azure height, And proudly with his glist’ning, scaly prize Is lost to sight in glowing sunset skies. Lena Bragg, ’24. MARSTON WILLIAM I. Marston William I with flashing eyes and expressive tail heard the approach¬ ing footsteps of the alley tyrant and bolted for the thoroughfare with all the haste of an aristocratic prize-winning Boston Bull. He was just in time to be called into the tonneau of his mistress’s car after his short respite in the heaven of dogdom, the butcher’s scrap box. Marston William, though an aristocrat, had the general feelings of a plebeian. His long line of ancestry could be traced back to some master-dog of the early Bostonians, but pedigree to Marston William I meant nothing but a cage, a ribbon about one’s neck which afforded pleasure in chewing, a great many people and a constant chatter of human voices. Marston William I on chance occasions romped after another one of his fellows when his mistress was engaged, but was promptly called back when his departure was noted. A satin-covered pillow on the parlor floor was the favorite spot of his mis-

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 21 life at its worst, and it is pathetic to consider that from the unhappiness and trials of many authors has come the poetry which, as Keats has said, must “be a friend To soothe the cares and lift the thoughts of man.” Millions are poor, millions are diseased, millions suffer at the hands of fate, but only the superman, only the man who is above the ordinary, extricates himself from the mire. Such a man is every great poet. The poet with his love for the aesthetic is God’s sympathetic listener. To him God is not obliged to perform miracles to prove his existence; for the poet under¬ stands it through the beauty of nature’s creations. Just as he perceives God’s hand in the lowdiest of insects, and plants, and trees, so he recognizes the divine guid¬ ance in Fate’s operations. As such he accepts them, as he would an eruption of the earth or a tidal wave. He bows with resignation to Fate’s commands and proceeds to do his best for the world. And to-day, in the twentieth century, at a time when civilization is supposed to be at its highest, we need the poet more than ever before. The struggle for hu¬ man existence is becoming harder every day. With the advent of every new soul the ratio between consumption and production is disturbed. Man can no longer feed himself with his two hands, so he employes machines to aid him, and still he must toil harder and harder to keep himself alive. Such a struggle is a fatal one; for in the pursuit of material well-being spiritual welfare is neglected. Long con¬ tinued labor deadens the aesthetic senses, and when these are dormant, people be¬ come sordid in their deeds and thoughts. The more sordid they become, the nearer to the animal they approach and this approach marks the decline of civilization. Ancient culture flourished only when the people had sufficient leisure to in¬ dulge their sense of the aesthetic. In “Cargoes” John Masefield shows us in a few well chosen verses the contrasts of three stages of civilization: Quinquireme of Ninveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and s-weet white ivine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the channel in the mad March days With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road rails, pig lead. Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays. The last stanza gives us the true picture of this sordid, commercial age; dirty steamers loaded with coal, timbers, cheap tin trays, symbols of utter necessity, of ceaseless exertion and toil.

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 23 tress, who placed him there with whispers and cajolery which meant nothing of importance to this dog. Sleep comes to all of us in comfort and so, too, it came to Marston William I. Sleep brought dreams, beautiful dreams of the model dogdom. Cows were straying, waiting to be chased, cats strode listlessly about waiting to b e teased, the scrap box held its inviting cover open, fields in which to roam were plentiful. Such were his dreams and in the ecstasy of pleasure, his short barks, unconscious to himself, drew the attention of his mistress from her book. Marston William I had a regard for his mistress, but for one other there was a respect and appreciation. This was a man, a frequent caller at the house, who talked of business to his mistress and of his expectancy of success. This was his god, his idol. His caresses spoke of power, clean and muscular, but never yet had Marston William I romped with his adopted lord. A sharp bark, and ears cocked, fully awake he rushed to the door. Foot¬ steps, his footsteps, the master. The door opened and the dog leaped to greet him. A harsh, “Down, sir!’’ caused him to stop and look blinkingly at the “great” one. What caused that frown? Why such a harsh greeting? The dog’s troubled mind scented something wrong. His nice master in trouble! Impossible! But yes, it must be so. Those quiet tones in which he spoke to mistress. The in¬ decision, and was that a final no? The Great One refused and in trouble. How could “Shrimpy” help him? Oh! to have him speak to him as “Shrimpy” once again. The man went towards the door, opened it, paused hesitant, lingered a mo¬ ment and passed on, but not before Marston William I had gone out unnoticed to wait at the corner of the walk. The Great One came down the walk, sorely troubled, and did not notice Marston William expectantly awaiting a caress. It was some time before he did notice him and then, “Back home, sir.” The dog turned, trotted a few steps, stopped and turned again. He was walking ahead again. Straight towards the alley. The dog followed. Unnoticed the dog entered the alley with the man. That meat box looked inviting. Then the tyrant’s voice, “Sic ’em, Tige.” His first instinct was to run. He half turned, stopped, and then the fighting blood of those past generations came to the fore. His legs stiffened, back bristled, and he awaited the approach of the big, burly yellow dog. The brute dog leapt to seize this mere pup and dispose of him in a few short moments, but his jaws closed on empty space and a sharp twinge in his leg spoke for the keenness of the aristocrat’s teeth. “Clean him up, kill ’m,” so the tyrant yelled. It was then the Great One turned and noting the smaller dog, yelled to the owner of the larger dog to call the brute off. His request was greeted with a salient to the stomach. Something snapped. His arm went out, met flesh and drew blood. This was a new feeling of exultation. Forgotten were days of past obedience to the “tie that binds.” The lust of battle held him. The fight of the dogs ended, as most dog fights do, in one standing off and offering no attack and the other ready but unwilling. A crowd soon gathered. This was a novelty. The tyrant of the alley fighting with a pedigree dog. A swelling sea of blue mounted on the Great One’s eye and then fury itself seemed loose. His arms worked like pistons. With trip hammer blows he beat back his assailant to be robbed of his victory by the voice of the constable. “Boys, boys, not in public, settle it anywhere but on the street. At it again, Mulligan, you knave of a butch¬ er! It’s about time you received your dessert.” So the amiable officer ended the episode. The Great One looked about, called, “Shrimp, come here.” The dog leapt to the fore with spirit and they started towards home. The dog’s mind was im¬ pressed. What lightness of step! What new life! Here was his master in true