North Quincy High School - Manet Yearbook (North Quincy, MA)

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MANET '21 HNO, two tomorrow. Letls l1ave luncl1 if you 're free. HO. K. There 's a special spaghetti ll1l1Cl1901l today, and I've always wanted to IHHSIPI' at least one art ! Feeling rather jovial at his near success in handling tl1e elusive edible, Brute startled Claud by demanding: VVho is goi11g to be your partner at tl1e masquerade? It's THE affair before graduation, you knowf, t'XVell, I l1EiV911ll thought about it. Besides. what would I wear for a costume? I suppose you 'cl NVHIII- 1119 to go as Pierrot ! Go as Father Ti111e if you like, but o11 second thought you'd better notg they might think you were a ghost! Think it over, anyway. To Claud's great surprise, Lilyan'Bronn con- S91ltGCl to go with l1in1. She wouldn't have told a soul that she had dodged six other prospec- tive escorts in order to lay her bets on him for a grand evening. Claud had come to the front like a dark horse, and the knight and his lady rode off to tl1e ball. The conquest was mutual, but it was part of tl1e illusion. There was a goal. Claud sailed through tl1e finals and began his last 1no11tl1 at Landon. HThe Chatterboxn became a part of tl1e annals of the institution. and thoughts became more serious. There was that i11 the almost reverent atmosphere which made humor an alien. A common bond of understanding existed among tl1e students which had for four years been dorn1a11t. The class became alum11i, and only tl1e re- ception remained. Claud Hlld Lilya11 led the grand march. There were introductions, congratulations, dancing, strained greetings, eloque11t partings. noise, silence. The illusion was complete. Claud Hollidge closed his eyes. ATTICS By Hazel Borne, I2-1 There used to be 311 attic in every house. filled with relics of ages past Hlltl times for- gotten. The things too precious, too loved, to be discarded, but too old for use, of generations back, found their lasting home there. Grand- mother's chair, with the old lace tidy great- grandmother had crocheted still gracing the red plush back, the sea tru11k that great-uncle had crossed the ocean with, and the little blue chair tl1at John had long outgrown, all came eventually to that haven of the past. Tl1e attic was never dustless. To wipe the soft grey dust from the cracked face of cousin Ernest was as unthinkable as to wipe the paint from the china vase a11d leave it white and character- less. The dust was symbolic of the past, and therefore should be reverenced. A flurry of spring l1OllS9Cl931llll,Q' 111igl1t sometime reach tl1e attic, but it was IIIOIIIGIIIHFX, a11d tl1e ancient attic i11l1abita11ts would resume their peaceful co11te111platio11 of the past, and their gentle cov- ering against tl1e passing ti111e would thicken o11ce agai11. The attic was the CllllCl1'G11 magic room o11 rainy days, with countless opportun- ities for new and exciting games. Mother would so111eti111es 001116 up tl1e narrow stairs after the Cllllt-l1'E'll l1ad bee11 put to bed. Zlllfl weep a little over -lohn's blue chair a11d baby sl1oes. Father sneaked up now and then. and looked at his old fishing-rod. or picked up his old split baseball bat and swing it, watching l1is swing i11 a cracked mirror. The attic held an unobtrusive but i111porta11t place i11 the family life, and a lasting place i11 tl1e family heart. Even today there are not lllklllj' girls who have 11ot once paraded over tl1e rough boards in S01116lOOClY.S attic, in a great show hat witl1 feather plu111es upon it, a11d long rustling skirts that brushed the dusty floor and l1i11dered their feet. The heavy trunk with the b1'Oli91l lock that held all the old clothes was a source of COIISIEIIII aniusement. I11 tl1e atticts Clllll light tl1e old silks Sllfjlle lustrously, and tl1e round beads gliinniered like priceless pearls. The faded brocades took 011 a new colorg the vel- vets woke a11d SllOl19 again. There was always IIIXSIQT5' Hllll CllH1'1ll i11 pulli11g out undiscovered boxes Elllfl raising their dust-laden lids, Hllfl there was always tl1e possibility of finding a yellowed diary, a faded lacy valentine, or a carved ivory fan. The attic was a little girl 's wonderbox, Permanent Possibility. Boys have 11ot scorned attics either. Two or three chairs, the l1igl1-backed 0116 with the pushed-through straw seat, the one with tl1e red-plush covered H1'1llS, a11d the big rocker- were a l1'?lll1 for tl1e very little o11es. There was great-grandad's sword Oll rusty hooks i11 the corner, and tl1at with a curtain rod f1'O111 tl1e stack behind the trunk, provided i111plen1e11ts for a bloody duel. The attic was a place where hard little boots could stamp and fly around ClOll1g no l1ar111 011 days when the steady drizzle of the rain kept them in doors. And tl1e stories grandad could tell i11 the evening after supper about the dusty curiosities they would bring down. Many a boy's introduction to Kid- napped or HTwenty Tl1OllS811Cl Leagues Under tl1e Seaf' has bG911 a stiff volume found i11 the attic where l1is wandering feet had led hi1n in search of so111etl1i11g to do. And attic windows. VVithout doubt, there is no window elsewhere i11 tl1e house quite like or heaps of grey dust in the corners, with perhaps a. silvery spider's web festooned across o11e corner. On Slllllly days the yellow rays G11lf61' the small panes and lllilke dusty yellow ladders to the floor, where they paint yellow panes on the boards. As tl1e windows are 11ot often open, the musty s111ell of tl1e past is preserved, a Slllell

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20 p MANET g stairs to the second fioor. But, alas, when called on in class, he sputtered and blushed and was very softly told to seat himself and in the vernacular of the day consider himself t'squelched. The left foot slowly rubbed the right leg and a murderous glint came into the childlike eyes. VVhen Joe reached home at four oiclock des- pite the weakening pangs of hunger, he made a fierce attack on the refrigerator and began to absorb nourishment as fast- as it was humanly possible to do so without producing a conges- tion of the aesophagus. To his mother he pre- sented this appearance: His hair was a stringy mass of brown fringe which stood at permanent attention all over his head. and this gave the usually bland face a fierce and warlike appearance. The collar of his shirt was open and had flatly refused to stand up any longer-thus it languidly sagged around the neck. Joe's pants looked like a product of the seventh grade sewing class with just enough folds at the wrong places. He was the ordinary boy at North after a day of work -tired, famished, and rebellious. but always victorious I UNCERTAIN VENTURE By Wlyllian Krause, 12-1 This is a story, which. though rather deficient in plot value. is smoothly. expressively and understand- ingly w1'itten. The story shows thought and purpose, and. in addition. makes interesting reading. Hi, Hollie! called the Brute. Claud Hol- lidge was glad the fellows had stopped calling him 'tFreshman. HBrute Clonder was the grid captain, the one who was responsible for the accounts of how 'tLandon High over- whelmed Milder Prep, smothered C. H. S., and had a walkaway in the tilt with Every High School. Claud had known him only five months, having for the past three years asso- ciated only with the intellectuals He re- garded his education with the utmost serious- ness. and was generally the ideal student. Now, entering his last year at Landon, he saw his position in a different. light. As a senior he observed certain obligations which were not evident before. He was a stranger to the social and athletic life of Landon from preference, but decided to line up with his fellow classmen in the interests of the Alma Mater. In short, he would create an illusion. Thus the end of the season brought him an HL and the inevitable Qold replica. In addi- tion to the points which he had scored he had won the recognition of the fellows. Here was their spokesman coming to the point in his usual abrupt manner: 'tYou played a grand game this season. and we 'd like to know why you hibernated for three years! Don 't tell us you weren't interested in athletics, because a born athlete just doesn't say that and mean it. VVhat were you really doing all that time?7' As a matter of fact, Brute, my studies-H f'Sure. Hollie. Vile all know youive been shut up like a clam with those tomes, and that you 'll probably save us all from the valedictory, but the school would appreciate you as its social leader, too. First, we want you to handle the sports in a paper we 're starting. You will cover all the games, and run a page in the 'Chatterboxl Of course you 'll have help and plenty of time outside for chem and law. How about it? Thanks, Brute: it sounds great! I'll have a chance to apply what I get in journalism. and enjoy it as well. Tell me about this paperf' The Chatterbox became the representa- tive of the students at Landon, and Hollie be- came the star reporter. He learned to take the viewpoint of each type of reader, and wrote his stories to satisfy each. Holliei' was the equal to them. Them are dusty, little soft signature at the end of the most amusing stories. the most skillful character sketches. the most commanding cases, cases that never failed to bring satisfactory action from the council. Hollie reached the point of popularity where he was in danger of seeing Landon not as some- thing to instill awe as he had seen it in his freshman year, but as a foreign minister might see it. Strangely enough he kept his feet on the floors of Landon 's corridors even when he ate the cake which would seem to make his head emerge from the chimney. The faculty may have wondered how Claud Hollidge could produce such vivid accounts of how the explosion occurred in the lab before the exam, and of how the prof located his camel hair coat and mahogany cane in the pos- session of HM12 Bones. The explanation might have been simpler had the authorities remem- bered that chemistry and biology were in the curriculum of the Chatterbox staff. Claud learned that there are cabbages and kings, and decided that for three years he had been a Brussels Sprout. Behind the illu- sion, however, there was the student Claud, the real Claud. In the seclusion of his room, in the sympathetic rays of a reading lamp, he was a student of psychology, a research worker. His findings were a part of the theses and classes of a detached life, but they would not be discontinued. There was a goal. January and mid-year exams. On the 22nd Claud wrote for three hours on the principles of law. Afterward he met Clonder outside. How are you, Brute? Did you throw that one? Sure thing, Hollie! I want to be in the spring practice. Any more exams today?

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2 2 MANET which forms as vital a part of the attic as the old trunk or the mouse-grey dust. But we have grown too modern and sophis- ticated for attics now. The newer homes have attic space,', they are required to by law. But they haven 't attics. If they have, they are large, heated, fitted with ping-pong or billiards, as are the cellars. Generally there are not even floors, just the rafters, and the attics are reached by a small square hole, through which one must pull oneself up. The entrances are even camoiiauged, as if the house was ashamed to admit the presence of such an antiquated thing. The only things in them are empty boxes, perhaps a broken chair, but nothing of the charm and mystery of a real attic. Fancy great-granddad's sword, or grandmotheris chair in the uppermost part-I scorn to call it attic -of an ultra-modern house whose interior is done in white and gold, cream and black, with low red leather chairs with carved arms. Your juvenile inmate of the house is at the movies on rainy afternoons, and your very modern male youngster is impatient of his granddad's stories. Pray do not misunderstand me. I am no ad- vocate of the Hgood old days. nor am I a propagandist against our modern age. Far from it. I would hastily and with great vehe- mence, decline an invitation to live in any other age but the present one. I merely speak of attics as one speaks of a dead or dying friend, idealistically, and with much reference to his good points, and sublime indifference to his bad, if he has any. I speak of them also as one does of an interesting and beautiful animal that is rapidly becoming extinct. Attics have no place in our ultra-modern dwellings. I do not regret the appearance of such housesg I merely regret the passing of attics, with the dust and mellowness of years upon them, as one of the few things belonging to the past, whose passing deserves regret. A TRIBUTE TO BYRD Betty XValla ce, 11-2 So much has been written concerning Commander Byrd that it is difficult to achieve originalityg con- sequently, this apostrophe to the land of ice is an excellent idea and gives life to the boem. The rhyme and rhythm are good. Honorable Mention. Uh. limitless space of polar snows, XVhere icy cliffs and bays Portray your rugged beauty In many wondrous ways. And where dark winter's perpetual cold Ifills your long and sunless days, You are not abstruse to man. Soon :ill the world will know The secrets of your Qreat wilderness, Hb. land of ice and snow, And by one man's patient courage XVill in strength and knowledge grow. LOSS AND GAIN By Priscilla VVallace, 11-8 The poem is based upon a mature idea which is carried through logically to a climatic ending. The balance of the title is manifest in the second and last stanzas. and again in the personiflcation of day and night in the second and third stanzes. Words have been carefully chosen that give the effect of a musical whole. Free verse is diflicult, but a certain rhyme has been maintained well. The effect of the poem' is one of well-rounded completeness. Honorable Mention. Though thou art dead, Still art thou beautiful, Thou couldst not bear to see Anything save beauty. And morning comes again. From peaceful reverie The world awakes To life anew. The newborn day stands Hushed and trembling. The day its cloak unfolds, And sublimely grows. Its mysteries, Yerdant and radiant and Yet unknown, reveals. Adding to the chain of eternity an Immortal link of solemn splendor. The sunslme softly fades awayg The shadows deepen Into night. Through the stillness The blackness of the sky Reiiects the shining stars. Day gently folds about its cloak again To sleep. The glories of this day and night Have filled my soul with longing. I would that thou wert here Beside me. But thou art there Beside Him. And seest a day and night More beautiful than this. THE EVOLUTION OF PERCY By Donald Shepheard, 9-2 A fair amount of vividness and probability, and its ability through its situations to arouse a feeling of sympathy and admiration for the chief character won first prize for The Evolution of Percy. The author of this story. more than ill any other material sub- mitted by ninth graders. has the underlying plan of his narrative so arranged as to arouse the reader's curiosity as to the outcome and thereby is able to hold the reader in a fair degree of suspense u11til near the end. Moreover. the character portrayal is life- like enough to be interesting, and the setting though sketchy does, nevertheless. supply a social environ- ment that determines the action of the story. The few bits of dialogue. too. are politely realistic. The judges hope to see more literary efforts of this promis- ing author. Percival Ronald Vandedonk was the son of Reginald Vandedonk, a Boston architect. The Vandedonks were a good old Boston family. The architectural firm, of which Mr. Vandedonk was the head, had been founded by his great- grandfather. It had been built into a fine firm. At the time this story begins, Percival had ,just graduated from Harvard. It was Mr.