Plymouth High School - Pilgrim Yearbook (Plymouth, MA)

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THE PILGRIM Sophomore Poetry Page ! WHEN DO I MISS YOU MOST? g When do I miss you most? l 2 It's hard to say l I Whether it be at morning light Q Or close of day, I I see the books you used to love, S i I hear a song- i And grief beats on my lonely heart I i Its deadly gong. 3 When d-o I miss you most? U g I do not know: ' Whether I think of you or not ' My heart will go g In sad regret, 2 I miss you most whene'er I try, g Dear, to forget. Along the ways we used to love 2 MOON Slowly and majestically with great ar- gent shield She climbs to her throne in the heavens, Long shafts of silver rays Illuminate a garden rare, Turning the fountain spray Into a misty white veil. The lady of the skies looks benignly down, Beaming soft radiance over all, Sending forth her golden wealth, Spinning a web of moon glory Around the earthlings below, Turning the world Into enchantment. LOUISE PIERSON '37 , J. O'KEEFFE 37. ! i,,,.,,-.,-,.,.-,- -,,-,,-,,-,,-. , .ibllillilliiDUilYiUiUTUilYlUilliU1lfiwilii Y ! Vi '10iUiUi g THE HIKER ' Broad roads, narrow roads-roads that g twist and twine, Winding like a ribbon through the oak and pine, : Up hill, down vale, by the lonely sea,- Little paths of heart's delight calling out to me: I Wanderlust's a heritage--rain and Wind and shine, Byways and highways ever shall be C 1 mine, Up dell, down dale, by moor and mire and burn,- I Where the heart holds festival, wander- ing feet will r-eturn. HAZEL CLEARY '37 i 03:1 1 gp 11.5 1 3 1 gp 1,1 :oiu3u1ogn14 gr gl 1131 QL 1 1 1 E i -4 ' 1 i Purple and gold the setting sun i Sinks down o'er the peaceful sea, i And into the heart of a lonely one i Comes peace and tranquillity. Q For the day with all its cares and Q strife i Fades with that calming sightg i Ang the heart that bears the burdens 2 or 1 e 3 Is eased and at once made light. Q ELDA GUARALDI '37 ,ibllitvilliblri it ioinioirliuioicritaiu? 4 uioioi ini I heard a note like the thrush's song Floating on the silent air, 'Mid the dazzling light Of the sun so bright,- And the singer was young and fair. But though she sang with a voice of gold, She could not hold me long, And to my heart No joy could impart,- For her soul was not in her song. FRANCES WIRZBURGER '37 1' riruininiuioiuix :nitric xi

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I PILGRIM Zfjww ---Ag, g pp p pg ,gm A NEW LITERARY GENIUS? KAY, have you ever heard of Ger- trude Stein ? No, I don't think so. She isn't that new torch singer with Whitermanfs is she ? You don't know anything. Why Gertrude St-ein is one of the foremost writers of the day. She's even consid- ered a genius by many of her readers. You think only of jazz orchestras. Well, what does she write ? Oh, she's marvelous-listen! 'What has my life in America been, it has been the doing of everything that I never have done. Never have done, never could have done, never could have done again, that is the way my life in America began and is begun and is go- ig on.' What do you think of that? Terrible-put on Rudy Vallee. No, its about time you became in- terested in good literature. And, Ger- trude Stein beingone of the best, we shall begin with her. Now will you listen? 'I cannot beli-eve that America has changed, many things have come and gone but not really come and not really gone but they are there and that per- haps does make the America that I left and the America I am to find different but not really dif-l' Stop! What is she trying to do? Make up her mind ? Certainly not, stupid. She means that she finds America different but not really different. 66011 !77 Stop interrupting and listen and s-ee if you can tell me what this means. 'And then it began. The doing every- thing that I had n-ever done, and the liking doing everything everything any- thing that I had never done. That be- gan. And this is the way it began.' What does it mean? You're hopeless. It means she's go- ing to begin something. Well, why b-eat around the bush a- bout it? Begin began I b-egun and began what begin to begun! Why all the cere- mony ? Because anybody can say 'I will be- gin', but not many can say it the way she does. Why, that's art. Yeah? Well, I give up. Turn on Rudy Vallee. No, I'll make you appreciate this if it takes years. Listen. 'And that is what America is, is and is and it is beautiful, beautiful in the American way, beautiful just in this way.' Oh! Is it? Then why all the repeti- tion? Because repetition is an art. There aren't many people who can use repe- tition and not bore the reader. And you think Gertrude .Stein can do it? Well, I don't. And don't you think I'm going to listen to more of that art . I'd rather read Homer. Maybe I'd get something out of that. All I get from Gertrude Stein's writing is dizziness. Now will you please turn on Rudy Vallee? Now I give up. R. BONGIOVANNI ,35 THE DERELICT MARY Suber, stooped and middle- ag-ed, earned her meager salary standing in half-lighted doorways in darkened slum districts gathering in- formation about the narcotics traffic. Her sallow, wrinkled face with its pierc- ing black, sorrowful eyes that once had been sparkling and happy, her pale, sneering lips, and her hollow cheeks which had long since lost the ruddy glow of youth were nearly hidden by a tangled mass of stringy, gray hair. She cared little for life. Some people thought Mary peculiar- at least those did who thought of her at all. A little gone up here! they would exclaim with derision, pointing an un- kempt hand in the direction of their heads. Her income should have been larger, for her services were invaluable, but all Mary Suber wanted was just enough to live in the simplest way. Frequently she went to federal headquarters or to police stations with her reports, but the occupants of the boarding house sup- posed that she was on parole-as many of them were. Consequently they asked no questions when no explanations were offered. Some day, boys, she often remarked to the police, I'1l get mine. This sure is a dangerous game. Mary Suber was bitter, hard, cynicalg the world had been ve-ry cruel to her. Once she, too, had been happy, unbeliev- ably happy. It had frightened her to have had so much-a fine husband, a sturdy little son all their own, a modest home, and the prospects of a gloriously happy future. M'ary's husb-and had been employed in the same business in which she now found herself. It hadn't seemed very dangerous theng in fact, he had Continued on pgae 30

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9 r 1 gg gggg AMM? - gEHfIgPILQRIM---g g g g Continued from page 28 seldom mentioned it at home. But one day he was brought hom-e to her riddled with bullets, his handsome, young face smeared with blood and his clothes stained with dark blotches. Knew too much, sympathized the old Irish policeman in his own brusk way. They always get it if they do. It was as though death had come to Mary herself. Her spirit was broken, her cheery smile waned, but even then she was determined to be happy for the sake of her tiny son. The little house was soon taken from her by foreclosure, but undaunted, she kept on, hard work she feared no-t. The baby became a fine strong boy. Mary loved to hav-e him with her. She almost worshipped him-perhaps too much for his own good. After a hard day of scrubbing and cleaning in downtown offices, she was content to sit and watch him. But he was selfish, thought- lessly selfish. He gave less and less of his time to his weary mother, almost shutting her from his life altogether. He seldom stayed at home, became moody, sometimes boisterous an-d gay, more often tired and depressed. When he joined an unprincipled group of boys, advice was not for him, and it was for a second time in Mary's life that her heart bled when her son was brought home to her hopelessly ill from an over- dose of a drug to which he had fallen victim. For a long time after his death noth- ing mattered to Mary. Her soul cried out for revenge on the cruel world which had taken both husband and son, but she was too weary and tired with life to go on. Her faith in mankind was utterly destroyed. God had forsaken h-er. Perhaps a bit of the real Mary showed itself unconquered when she offered herself to the police in the war against the drug traffic. And so for the last twelve years she has been successful in her mission. There's a leak somewhere, the peddlers would say, never suspecting the poor shabby woman standing in the doorway. Someone's in with the cops. JEAN WHITING '36 AVE MARIA AVE Maria, softly intoned the choir from the depths of the great cathedral. Hail Mary, she echoed reverently, remembering another Mary, a Mary who was tall, slim, dauntless, a Mary who had won every battle except the one with death. Dear Mary, she whispered with head bowed on the altar rail, dear Mary, I've tried so hard. Really, I have. I've worked, worked hard, Mary, when I was sick, tired, weary. All for little Joey who kne-els besid-e me, that he, your son, might have the chance denied to you and me. It hasn't been easy. The world is cruel to an old woman. If John had lived, he might have helped us. But he loved you. Better for him that he died bene-ath the wheels of an automobile than to blunder through life without you. Ah, but Mary, when you left this little son in my care-you didn't- know-didn't know that gradually he was becoming deaf. Day by day his hearing fades. Ah, God, that this bright, eager child should some day nev-er hear! And I helpless to save him! My pitiful earnings can never pay for treatments which might save him! I could give him to the stat-e. ,He would be provided for. But I love him so! That bright hair, those blue eyes, they're yours and mine! Without them life has no meaning. While I live, I can not give him up. The gloom is bitter-sweet with incense. Red tapers, like liquid rubies, burn be- neath the huge crucinx. A wandering finger of light reveals a calla lily. Joey, his elfin face alight with eager- ness, drank in the beauty and magnifi- cence of the great church. For the moment, all else sank into oblivion. Tenderly she lifted her hand as if to stroke the y-ellow hair. In mid-air it stopp-ed, dropped to h-er side. With quick resolve sh-e arose sil-ently and swiftly made her way down the dim aisle. Joey gazed enraptured at a massive statue of Mary with the child. H-e had not h-eard her leave. .Straight down the ponderous stone steps she march-ed. N o backward glances, no faltering. Out into the grey street, strangely quiet aft-er the clamor- ous day of business, she went. On she walked rapidly. Mor-e slowly, more slowly now she went. No crying now. No regrets, she ad- monished h-erself. Father Murphy will understand. He'll see that Joey goes to the institution. He'll see that Joey gets his treatments. He'll- The moan of a foghorn interrupts her hysterical thoughts. The wind blows damp across the river where crushed soulsandbroken heartspause for onelast precious moment--then are forever K