Plymouth High School - Pilgrim Yearbook (Plymouth, MA)

Page 8 text:

6 THE PILGRIM black streak, this was the Biogra- phy which finally met opposition when it tried to penetrate the wall, the result being a well-bent book cover. Also through the air came a volley of words which do not belong to the English language. And finally through the air came the distinctive snore, which sound- very much like a train passing through a tunnel. Alec slept for three hours and twenty-six minutes when there was heard in the dark, mysterious atmosphere the penetrating ring of the little round alarm clock. There was another series of mis- used nouns, verbs, adjectives, and every other part of speech in the English language, plus a few more which we shall not mention just now. These were hurled at the alarm clock which, of course, could not be blamed for waking him up, because he, himself, had set it. Five hours later Alec was writ- ing a very lengthy book report in the English class. He filled two pieces of paper and half of another with his knowledge of forty pages of the book and the brief index. Laboriously he completed the last topic on the outline. VI Opinion of the Book? The bodk is very interesting and it is a pleasure to read it. Ivan Zavanovich is a very interesting character, and he did many noble things throughout his glorious life. F. WHITING '30 A FORGOTTEN TUNE Slowly I close my eyes, Softly the velvet black Holds me- Drifting. . . Softly down my street of dreams A forgotten tune- Never have I heard music blown so lightly, Now it touches my cheek, Daintily blows on my eyes-my hair, So close to me. Now far away-I've lost it! No, it's close again, Soft, ,so very soft-I shall sleep agaln. A delicate memory of the past- A dream lost among dreams. N. P. SEARS '30 oDE Arnnm-'XRTURE Edifice of understanding! to whom Enshrined within thy stately walls ,We've humbly looked for guidance, We found knowledge, omnipres- ent, Your legacy of learning we accept, And place within our hearts for evermoreg To you who set our course aright, Weill look, in years to come, With eyes alight with admiration. You moulded, from a shapeless mass, A mind, the navigator of the soul, Within whose reash may rest That oft-sought, ye seldom-gained Will o' the Wisp, that men call Fame. If glory is our goal, and we achieve Its heights, to you we'll give all praise, For, 'tis toward you, the friend of youth, To whom all eyes should turn. As epithets, tho' flowing o'er with gratitude, Can not convey our love, we'll say: As youths we've loved, as adults We shall thank and praise you, When, with quickened pulse, we turn Our thoughts toward you, our Alma Mater. H. GEARY '30 A SONNET The lakes and hills are permanent: Their beauty rivals all. The gallant oaks and stately pines Live on through ages long. The ocean, with the ceaseless roll Of wave upon the shore, Eternally does ebb and flow, Through darkness and through storm. And so, through numbered years, we must Prove true and worthy sons. The lessons we have learned, of love, Allegiance, guidance, health, Will help us all with strength to live, And benefit Mankind. K. FARNELL '30

Page 7 text:

THE PILGRIM 5 The boy bowed his handsome, black head. Failed, he repeated quietly. Oh, Gaylord! have you failed me, too? Sobs shook the slim figure, and she covered her quiver- ing face with her two, slender hands. Princess Vera- began the youth leaning toward her. She stood up suddenly, regally beautiful. Go!!' She spoke but the single word with such a world of scorn and disgust in her voice, that the lad turned pale, and, making an- other deep obeisance, vanished through the trees. In an abandon of misery, she threw herself on the mossy grass. Suddenly she leaped nimbly to her feet and came toward my seat. You can help me--you-, she cried in her thrilling, husky tones and snatched me into her arms. Then she set off across the field, taking me along with her. Coming to a small house, she knocked on the door and cried, 'Tis I, Vera. Enter, said a sad voice, and we complied at once. I have brought Magnolia with me, to cheer you up, darling, said the Princess, tenderly kissing the old ladyis withered cheeks. I began to feel foolish. Was this all Princess Vera had been making the fuss about? Was this- Why, here comes a girl who looks exactly like Princess Vera- it is she! Will she look? Will she know me? She does-! She's com- ing this way with Jenkins-she is! She is speaking! I am looking for a certain book, I forget the name, but the cover is white-with magnolia blossoms on it. The author? Let me see. John --Jone-a simple name-I have it -John Smith-yes, John Smith. Here it is, Madame, said Jenkins. 'Magnolia' is the name. She ran her finger quickly thro- ugh the pages, until she came to this, To Vera-with love--from Gaylord. This is my book! she cried. The words to a song popped into my head at this minute-- I'm on the shelf, saving myself for you. Yes, it's true, I'd been saving myself for this without knowing it, but now-now- Life is pretty good, even if you are only a book. MARGARET BROWN '30 TRIALS OF A STUDENT What do you say, Alec? Will you go to the show with me to- night? You can do your book re- port some other time, after the show, for instance. Say, brother, who do you think I am, the Prince of Nighthawks? I have to get up tomorrow morn- ing at four-thirty in case you don't know it. Oh, you should worry. To- morrow is Friday and you can sleep from eight P. M. to ten A. M., er-that is, if you aren't stepping out. You know what I mean ? Yeh, but this blooming, blasted book report. I just got the book this afternoon. A five-pointer with four hundred and ninety-seven pages-and it's due tomorrow. Oh, I'd like to invent a form of punishment for that English teacher. Just for spite, I'm going to the show. That's the way to talk, old man. Come on, it's quarter of eight now, and we'll miss half of the first pic- ture. We now drop in at Alec's home just after he has come in. Chuckl- ing to himself over the comedy that he has just seen, he is seen lying on his bed gazing at page twenty-six of the Biography of Ivan Zavanovichf' Ten minutes later he has advanced three pages backwards to the picture of Ivan's daughter opposite page twenty- three. Having gazed at Ivan's daughter and admired her beauty for all of half an hour, Alec de- cides that it would be much more comfortable to undress and get in- to bed where he can lie on his back and proceed with the torture of reading. This he did, but, having read for a while, the softness of his bed and the peculiar actions of his eyelids finally overcame his ability to read longer. Through the air shot a

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-