Paris High School - Chronicle Yearbook (South Paris, ME)

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THE CHRONICLE E 42.4-if cfdmwd ,QZMAQKZZ TI gm, ? E

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32 TH E CHRONICLE SCHOOL DAZE Oh, June of 1957, I hope you'll soon be here. I'm tired of education, For I've studied many a year. In math I've worked to solve for X, Or maybe Y or Z, Though what can be the use of it Is more than I can see. In French I've tried to parlez-vous . Mistakes made my face red. A Frenchman would be mystified To know what I have said. Those essay questions in hist'ry Were really my great despair. I've thought and thought and and writ, But much of it's been hot air . writ My English I thought was easy. It never caused me much fright 'lill during my vacation A poem I had to write. When it's June of '57, And I think I'm through with kno-wl- edge, I'll find it's futile after all, For I must go to college. Stephen Hicks '57 JUST LIKE A MAN! Quote: A man may work from sun to sun, But a woman's work is never done. Up at dawn to do the mopping Hurry home - from my shopping. Dust the tables, lamps and chairs. Lightly scrub the cellar stairs. Make the beds and shake the rugs. Flit the crevices for bugs. Plan a menu. Start the meal- Always those darn vegetables to peel! Set the table and - oh, yes! Not to mention bathe and dress. I dare you, husband dear, again to Say, What'd you do today? Carol Moffett '56 COMPLAINT Ah, that I could take a thought And hold it in my hand And turn it into shining words! No one can understand The aching of this heart in me Because it cannot build With simple, commo-n well-used words A poem! Learned and skilled In the art of making verse Though I'm supposed to be, Can no one teach me how to turn Verse into poetry? Anita Chase '57 oH, swam LIFE Alas, this grim portray of life, Of dull routine and mortal strife Has ceased. It will no longer be. The man is dead, his soul set free. But he has not yet found the peace, With which his death he hoped to lease. For he, poor man, was led astray, They save for him, another day. He will be born to live again, To earth, this poor man they'll send. He'll moan and groan and sigh and Cry, For it doesn't pay to ever die. Robert Moorehead '56 SNOW The snow is falling through the air, Among the trees and everywhere, Covering roads and creeks and lanes, And peeking in the windowpanes. It trims the gray fence rails in frills Turns the haystacks into fleecy hills, Gives all the posts round wooly caps And fields white aprons for their laps. Janice Reynolds '57

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THE CHRONICLE