Old Town High School - Ye Olde Towne Crier Yearbook (Winston Salem, NC)

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MODERN MISS Fair Romeo and Juliet, No truer loves have ever met; They weren’t like young folk of today Who never fool their time away As such a very simple thing As having one beau on the string. Instead of one, three swains or more A pretty girl finds at her door. My ma an’ pa thought it was right To fall in love at very first sight, But ere I land what grabs my hook, I plan to take a second look. While I am young I want my fling, With dates and clothes and everything. I want to pluck flowers and dance with the wind, And dream that such joys can never end. I have no wish to settle down; The thought of marriage makes me frown. Since wedded life is not all roses, Pll wait, at least, till a man proposes. Mary Lou Blevins. INTROVERT Oh, why must I always dissemble Why must I shiver, shake, and tremble If I my “self” could just unbind I’m sure I'd find Within my mind An egotistical “me” confined. A ‘me’ that leads me on a trail, Up a mountain, down a yale, That makes me blush when I’d grow pale, Then makes me too blue, And too glad, too, A “me” I simply can’t subdue. If my own faults I did not cherish, If I could only let them- perish, I’m sure at last I'd get my wish, Subdue this “T’ Whom I decry, And the raucous rascal, ‘‘me,”’ deny. Pat Dockery. TRANSITION Par out On old blue ocean A pirate ship at sea By raging storm and blowing wind Is doomed. And soon The ship will lie Upon the ocean floor It’s gold, it’s men will be henceforth —Fish food. Herman Shamel.

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THE GASESOPAT HE. Light Vee POU LER “Be careful in going over the things in the chest Gramp left you. Some of them might be valu- able. You never know.” These words from the letter my brother Jack had written me, stuck in my mind as I sat there in front of the old walnut chest. This chest had stood in my room during the ten years I had lived with my grandfather, and at his death it had been sent to me by the aunt who had inherited the rest of his property. In it, she had left the things which had been stored there. It was of these things that my brother spoke. I had to inspect the miscellaneous assortment hurriedly, because Jack would arrive within an hour. He could stay only a short time, so I could show him only the things which appeared to me to be valuable. As I unpacked the chest, my only thought was that, perhaps, from the sale of these things I could get the additional five hundred dollars I needed for my long-awaited ardently-desired trip to Europe. First, I took from the chest, a bundle of letters, yellow with age and tied with a faded lavender ribbon. I hadn’t time to read the letters but the stamps looked valuable. Perhaps Jack would be in- terested in these, so I put them aside to be saved. Next, I pulled out some handwoven woolen and linen coverlets. They might be worth keeping, so I put them with the letters. In a box among these coverlets, I found some odd pieces of jewelry. I didn’t know whether they were valuable or not, but I added them, anyway, to the pile of letters and coverlets. Then, at the bottom of the chest was a collection of small hand-carved figures. I knew they were worthless. My great-grandfather had been a ceaseless whittler and his carvings had littered my grand- father’s house. I had come to, hate them during the years I had been obliged to dust them. I don’t know why they were sent to me, except, that my aunt wanted, perhaps, to get rid of them. At ran- dom, I selected one, — a pointer, artfully carved with clear-cut lines, almost lifelike, and not more than three inches, in height, The other figures were as tiny and as well carved. In all there must have been about twenty-five or thirty of them, all over a hundred years old. I put the pointer aside as a keepsake. Then gathering up the rest of the figures, I carried them to the open fireplace in the den and threw them on the blazing fire.. The old wood kindled easily, and soon the figures. were completely burned. As I was returning from. the den, I heard the dcorbell ring. I opened the door and found Jack, busily brushing the light snow from his hat and coa t. After embracing me warmly, he asked about the chest and its contents. Taking his hand, I led him up the steps to my room. “T’ve just finished sorting the things,” I said. “I don’t know whether they are valuable or not, but there are some handwoven coverlets and some jewelry, besides some old letters with. stamps that might be valuable.” As he knelt on the floor looking at the things I had selected, I stood by waiting eagerly. At last he shook his head and said, “I don’t know, Sis. It doesn’t look too good. The coverlets are handwoven, but not in a very elaborate pattern. The jewelry is cheap. As for the stamps on the letters — they are old, but not very rare. I'd say everything in the chest would be worth not more than a hundred dollars.” Then he picked up the miniature I had kept as a remembrance. “It’s too bad you don’t have any more of these,” he said. “I bet Gramp would be surprised to know antique dealers are paying twenty- five dollars and more for pieces like this!” Ln a PROBLEM, DAUGHTER My mother says I cannot go Out with the gang to see the show. Somehow I think she’s strict with me, But she says, “Just you wait and see!” “Some day you'll have a daughter, too, Who'll be a problem then to you, Who'll want to waste her precious days Instead of learning lady-ways.” Then I say, “But I’m getting old, Fifteen years [ve lived all told; Scon for me will youth be fled Motker sighs and shakes her head. 33 ! I guess there’s really nothing new In mine and Mother’s points of view. Two roads run north and never meet; Two roads for mother-daughter feet. Jane Fulk.

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WATCH THE BIR DIE At school there is much posing for pictures at this season when the yearbook is just beginning to get under way. It is always exciting to see the days roll around when photographs are to be made. This year the boys roamed the halls looking surprisingly human in unaccustomed suits and ties — this was only for that one day, you understand. Every girl wanted to be sure each hair was in place. Do you know the correct way to sit? Do you know just how you are going to smile? Oh, it was really fun, but, of course, you never know how you posed for a picture until you see it. Then today the proofs came back, and everybody wanted to know immediately what had hap- pened, and why did they look so terrible. It is natural that we should want the pictures to flatter us. You hardly ever see one that does. Excitedly I grabbed my proof and hurried away to enjoy it in private. Our photographer had said on good authority, and I quote, ‘Cameras don’t lie,” but somehow I’m not sure, because I know I don’t look like that proof. Back out. of my memory I dragged the episode of taking my picture. It went like this — | | “Sit up straight,” said th e photographer, and I did. ‘Look natural,’ he said, and I did. At least I slumped, which was natural. “Look pleasant, but don’t smile,” he said, and I complied. It was easy — I just thought about the date I didn’t have for Saturday night. ‘‘Smile,” said Mr. T., and, if I am to believe the proof, I obliged with the silliest, most self-conscious, most vacuous, most genuinely idiotic smirk that ever con- torted the face of man or beast. Again I consulted my proof — my hair I had brushed, curled, and generally groomed to its very best possible appearance, but here it lay against my hollow cheek with a limp, dispirited, wholly dis- couraged air. I said, “hollow” cheek. Only one was hollow — the other bore mute testimony to my thrift which would not allow me throw out an almost new wad of bubble gum. I called my best friend, and swearing her to secrecy, I showed my proof. Waiting for her words of horror and sympathy, I was amazed to hear her exclaim, “Oh, it’s so much better than mine! Aren’t you thrilled? Why, it’s exactly like you!” Jean Belton. THEE COW DOYS. LIFE The bawl of a steer, His eyes are bright, To a cowboy’s ear, And his heart as light Is music of sweetest strain. As the smoke of his cigarette; And the yelping notes There’s never a care Of the gray coyotes For his soul to bear, To him are a glad refrain. Nor trouble to make him fret. To the lilt of a song The rapid beat He gallops along Of his horse’s feet And he things of a little gal On the dirt as he speeds along; With long black hair Keeps living time Who is waiting there To the jolly rhyme By the bars of the home corral. Of his rollicking cowboy song. For a kingly crown Saddle up, boys, In a noisy town For the work is play, His saddle he wouldn’t exchange; When love’s in the cowboy’s eyes — “Oh, a life that’s free And his heart’s as light Is the life for me,” As the clouds of white He sings to the rolling range. That swim in the summer skies. Mary Lou Blevins. Note: All poems and other literary work used in “Ye Olde Towne Crier” were prepared as regular assignments in Mrs. Newman’s English classes and were selected by her for this yearbook.