Plymouth High School - Pilgrim Yearbook (Plymouth, MA)

Page 10 text:

8 THE PILGRIIVI otism by the now famous words, H54-40 or fight! In little more than a half cen- tury, the charming and fertile valley of the Platte has been trans- formed into prosperous common- wealths, its development from an almost desert waste, a marvelous monument to the restless energy of the American people. Although the Iron Horse now rides rough-shod over the Oregon Trail, and although it has complete- ly effected the civilization of the West, the tourist from the win- dow of his car on the Union Pacific Railroad, gazes in wonder- ing awe at the wild scene that stretches out before him to the dis- tant snow-capped mountains,- isolated buttes, rocky bluffs, light- ning-splintered gorges, foaming torrents, fantastically-formed boul- ders-wonders that do not recog- nize puny man! The Platte Valley for un- told ages was a beautiful, aw- ful wilderness, the haunt of stately-headed elk, of vast herds of buffalo, of deer, and of other game. Through this garden of Eden flowed the Platte, described by Irving as the most magnificent and most useless of streams. To- day. its islands seem groves of ver- dure Hoating about on the spark- ling water, and, when seen in the rarefied atmosphere of the West, they create the impression of a master-piece fresh from the hands of God! Along the route followed by the train, are numerous evidences of the days when the mountains echoed the diabolical yell of the savage Redskin as he tore the reek- ing scalp from the head of the Paleface. There is Wood River, a noted landmark and camping place for those who followed the tide of im- migration, and Brady's Island, the scene of the brutal murder of an old-time trapper by one of his partners. One of the historic places on the left bank of the river is Ash Hollow, famous as the spot on which a bloody Indian battle was fought. Johnson's Creek was named for a missionary who, thinking bloodshed should be avert- ed, ventured forth to pacify a war party of Indians that was attacking the immigrant train of which he was a member. Independence Rock is an isolated mass of granite located in the middle of the river. Its base covers an area of five acres, and the rock rises to a height of three hundred feet. The front face of this ancient landmark, is covered with names of the trappers, traders, and others who perhaps thought their rude carvings would make them famous. The rock was named by a party of men who cele- brated their Fourth of July at the foot of this historic rock. There are other famous scenes too numerous to mention, and, as the train rushes onward, the traveler, awed by this immense, imposing beauty cannot but feel deeply sorry for those unknowing tourists who, in search of interest- ing scenery, forget their own country to travel thousands of miles to other lands! But the ignorant must be taught. Let this be a small step in the Americanizing of the American tourists, that he may better appre- ciate the natural gifts that are his by the sacrifice of others and by the grace of God! DELMO ENAGONIO '30 THE WESTERN PLAIN Across the eastern sky A crimson flush dawning Gilds God's dry inland sea. O'er rippling waves of grass Blown by sultry winds, Sun-iilled sails slack, drooping, As onward slowly toiling Across the blinding sand, Creeps the weary caravan. Beneath men's shouts and oaths, Like ocean's dreary monotone, Four rhythmic beats like music, Music-irritating-far from sooth- lng S Blow-wave-ripple-dip, Fill the weary brain With thoughts of friendly trees Etched in a cloudless sky,

Page 9 text:

THE PILGRIM 7 SUBMITTED FOR THE AMERICAN LEGION PRIZE From the seventy-six papers submitted by the Senior history class, the staff considered these tivo most worthy of publication. THE OREGON TRAIL CAn Historical Essayj What was the Oregon Trail? That is the first question that con- fronts the student who seeks in- formation upon this subject. To the non-imaginative, mechan- ical, narrow-minded being, it is but a customary route that certain im- migrants traversed on their way to the West :-a trail that led from Westport on the Missouri River, along the Kansas, Platte, and Sweet Water Rivers into the Oregon Territory. Let us put aside this narrow, contracted view, and turn to the version of the imaginative, pensive, far-sighted man, the idealist,-a person like a painter who sees beauty in such commonplace oc- currences as a sunset or a child nestled in his mother's fond em- brace. In his sight the Oregon Trail was one blazed by dauntless faith, marked with human bloodshedg its guide-posts shining skeletons, bleached by the torrid, over-hang- ing sun known only to desert skiesg -vivid, graphic monuments left to tell the tales of blood-curdling massacres by frantic Indians, or, perhaps, of the sufferings of starv- ing human beings who had killed their mules and horses to provide food for aching stomachs. But there was little of that food that consoles for grief-torn minds and hearts who, in such pitiful predica- happy times enjoyed back home on the quiet farms of Illinois, Ken- tucky, and even of New Englandg hearts who in such pitiful predica- ments as they now found them- selves, turned to reverent prayer. What was the incentive that beckoned them onward from peace to strife, from the known to the unknown? We must remember that this army of immigrants was composed of various types, and as diverse were their aims in venturing into the wilds of the West. Some sought free land for new homes, some sought fur-bearing animals, while some sought gold, ever a source of trouble to mankind. Others, pioneers like Carson, were merely exploring this wild land for the enjoyment they received by being in constant contact with Nature Cin her native elementj, and by be- ing leaders in the conquests of civilization. Then there were the riff-raff, gamblers, and crooks, the parasites of society, seeking liveli- hood from others' labors,-it mat- tered not how they obtained it so long as little manual labor was re- quired. Also, here were those afflicted with the wanderlustg tumble-weeds rolling along, in whose veins flowed blood on fire with the desire to see new lands and people. Unknown to them, they were but following the same in- stincts that their barbaric ances- tors,-the Huns, the Franks, the Angles, and the Saxons had fol- lowed in the Past Ages. Also in the ranks of the immi- grants, could be found the mission- aries like Marcus Whitman, who realized their duty and were de- liberately risking their lives to try to convert the treacherous Indian. They were martyrs as were the Roman Christians that came be- fore them! To such types do we owe the con- quest of the West 3-it really was a conquest, for only by their settle- ments effected only by severe tribulations, was he United States able to establish such a strong claim to the disputed Oregon Territory, now a Wealthy section of our country. Once settled, they could not be easily moved, and, when in 1844 the con- troversey arose with Great Britain concerning the Oregon-Canadian border, they displayed their patri-

Page 11 text:

S' ' A THE PILGRIM 9 Of cool and sparkling water A house grew from a shapeless Dripping on the mossy stone. A mass. Parched and blackened lips Men burrowed in like grubby Utter crys of joy. moles, Tired eyes strain forward- Into empty space- 'Tis gone-and naught remains. Illusion like a temptress Waves her golden wand and van- ishes-- And on thro' blistering afternoon, Lurches the endless straggling line, Stolidly onward into the sun. Along muddy creek banks Imprinted deep with buffalo wallows, Stamped by shaggy beasts-trudg- ing on. Then a shout rings out- Camp! a magic word That slips from lip to lip. Fevered voices pierce the gloomy curtain Of choking dust and prairie heat, Like embers of a dying fire, Brightened by the bellow's breath. Wagons, gath'ring like frightened children, Clasp hands of friendship, round about The single flame of hope within their midst. Above the camp the stars peep out, Tender, yellow flowers Bud softly in the sky's own prairie garden. The horses' neighing drifts upon the ev'ning breeze, A coyote howls in dismal answer- then Silence-save for distant sound of shiv'ring grass. Silence-silence, grass and stars, The camp sleeps while the night slips on. Day after day of ceaseless journey while Blood-streaked eyes search fran- tically. This far shalt thou go-no farther, The God of settlers seemed to say. Snows, droughts, blizzards, storms, Rains, hot winds, and little pigmy people All held in the hollow of His hand. Sand was scooped from lowly slopes, Completing small sod houses. Home! revival of hopes and courage. The autumn in all its loneliness Passed into winter-winter to Spring. When the land was a desolate waste, 'Three curling spirals of smoke, Drifted lazily into the gray of the sky, Incense ascending to the God of Homes. Spring came over the prairie, not Softly and shyly, but in magic strides. Nature, the alchemist, ground in her mortar Faint odors of loam, grasses, and wild flowers, Tossing these o'er the prairie 'on wings of the wind. And then in the cloudless blue, A haze grew and spread, And the tell-tale odor of smoke Was borne on the gentle breeze. Upon God's green earth, Great strips of upturned loam ap- peared, Like creations from an artist's brush, And then it rolled in from the North West, The black of smoke, then the low Running scarlet of the fire! All afternoon the river lay between The hideous advancing Thing And the defenseless bank of set- tlers. Ah! The cruel lips of flame Ceased reaching-reaching for their prey. The land across the creek lay Desolate, solitary, a blackened waste, Trees charred and turned to ashes. The fire, the terror of the prairie, Had come and gone, leaving its scar. A year passed-a year of Hardships, toil, and agony. Then Spring sprang up anew, Throbbing, vibrating with life. From the west a warning came,