Plymouth High School - Pilgrim Yearbook (Plymouth, MA)

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ze - THE PILGRIM Here lies the Fountain of Youth, and men worship oxen. Youth, the foremost wish of his heart! A fountain where he who drinks is made young-- if Mandeville had found it, why could not he? Perhaps he was a bit deranged by sorrow - who knows? However, on the strength of Mandeville's statement, his search began. The rest of his story is history. We all know of his long, futile search for the fabulous fountain, of the hardships and heart-break he endured before he died, at the end of one of his voyages, a weary and heartsick old man. One wonders whether the cruel heart of the lady were touched, or whether she ever knew of the futile search to which she had driven him. Truly, strange are the ways of a lovesick man! But Ponce lives on, in history, as the explorer who discovered Florida, and not as he really was- only an incurable romanticist with an unhappy heart-and all for the love of a lady. PRISCILLA ROBERTS '36 BARGAIN CU MATINEE - 15c DID you ever go to the movies on a Friday afternoon with the hope of thoroughly enjoying the pictures, only to regret, as the afternoon Wears on, that you did not take a walk or stay at home and listen to the radio? Most of us have experienced this disappoint- ment. It is not the pictures which cause this discomfiture, but both the physical and mental attitude of our neighbors. Sitting back comfortably with visions of keen entertainment, our attention is suddenly and painfully withdrawn from the screen by a thump or thumps on the back. Leaning forward, we gradu- ally recover our mental equilibrium suf- ficiently to concentrate on the films. By the time that our courage has returned enough for us to ease back into our seat, we hear the familiar Rise, please, of the usher. After responding reluctantly to his courteous request, we once more sit down and try to collect our thoughts and belongings, upon which we discover that the person next to us is comfort- ably seated upon our coat sleeve. There follows a period of indecision as to whether we'd best try to retrieve it now or wait for a more opportune moment. We decide on the latter, and for a short time all goes well. Becoming intensely interested in the plot, the emotionally inclined among us are nearly on the verge of tears, when from out of the vast darkness, comes a high falsetto laugh followed by a series of loud guf- faws. To add to this distraction, a small child in the row in front of us makes it plain to his mother and, incidentally, to all within hearing distance, that he wants to go home. Occasionally his Wish is granted, but more often, to our sor- row, it is not. Suddenly it dawns on him that there might be something of interest in the unexplored region under the seats. Forgetting him for a moment, we are again reminded of his presence by a muffled shriek, I can't get out! Whereupon he is vigorously extricated, and deposited in his seat by his irate mother. There, to our great satisfac- tion, he remains for the rest of the afternoon. To return to the picture, we find that it is nearly finished. As the curtain closes, pandemonium breaks loose. One more bargain matinee is over! What a ' 1 bargain ' DOROTHY PERKINS '36 I DREAMED A DREAM I dreamed a dream: And in that dream I saw- A world of splendor Of purple and gold, Of light and beauty. Beautiful jewels sparkled in a heavenly domeg And people strolled along And lived in perfect harmony. I woke at dawn And thought my dream untrue, incomprehensi- ble - And so I looked from my window, sighing, And marvelled at the vision Of the sun, surging upward on its journey- Castin ra f r l d ld g yso pupe an go Over the rolling hills. And jewels scintillated from dew-dripped bowers. A man passed by Whistling - Reveling in a world of beauty and peace. I thought - why dream, when all about God has given us beauty in Nature Oft-times unappreciated. MILDRED LAPHAM '36

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THE PILGRIM 27 1217 ' ? FOR THE LOVE OF A LADY MANY deeds, wise and foolish, have been done for the love of a lady. How wise the Frenchman who remarked Cherchez la femme! For always in the background lurks the feminine in- fluence- more often than we know she has laid her mark on history, as you will see. We have often heard the story of Ponce de Leon-so often, perhaps, that its romance is dulled by repeti- tion. But his story is really more ro- mantic than one realizes, if only the truth as it is told here were known. For this is the tale of what sent him on his quest. Leon was a rather small town in Spain, in those fifteenth-century days, and Ponce was not an outstanding figure in it. He had always lived there, and while he took an occasional part in its activities and, for a time, lived a mildly exciting life with his various bachelor contemporaries, he was inclined to be self-effacing. He was different from the rest. Especi- ally was he fond of reading and studying, -even although education and books were scarce. As the years passed, and he grew older, he continued to live by himself, surrounded by his books. He was very fond of reading Sir John de Mandeville's travels, and, although these accounts were grossly exaggerated, he spent many hours pouring over the volumes and taking imaginary voyages of his own. He never married, and, as time passed, he grew more and 'more content with his manner of living. However, as so often happens to mens of his type, as he neared lifty he had the misfortune to fall in love with a lady 'many years younger than himself. Poor Ponce! The thought of her dis- turbed his hours, waking and sleeping, and, as the situation grew worse, he had no rest. Her face came between him and his book, her voice haunted him night and day, in short, his whole life was disturbed by her. Finally he could endure the situation no longer. One night, as was the cus- tom, he engaged a musician to soften the heart of the lady with seductive airs and create the proper romantic atmos- phere. Together they went to her court- yard, and soon the plaintive strains of a guitar filtered through the heavy scent of mimosa which hung about her win- dow. A slight figure appeared behind the bars, and Ponce's heart suddenly swelled. Surely, surely she must listen to his suit and give answer. He stepped from the shadow into the moonlight and in low, impassioned tones pleaded his cause. But alas! When he had finished and stood with lowered head awaiting her word, only a light laugh sifted through the grating which separated them. But no, Senor Ponce-you are too old! Go back to your musty books, and leave love-making to those younger than you. Oh, the cruelty of youth! Stooped with sorrow, Ponce returned to his lonesom-e abode and turned to his books for solace. He opened a volume of Mandeville's travels, and, scarcely real- izing what he read, started to scan an ancient map. Here lies Ind, he read, the familiar words bringing comfort. Diamonds grow as large as oranges, and the people are green and yellow. Suddenly his eye was caught by a tiny bit of lettering in one corner, which had hitherto escaped him.

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THE PILGRIM 29 THE FATES WILL ATTEND R-ESTLES'S flashes ofl lightning glowed in the sky and were quickly extin- guished as if by some unknown hand. A rising wind soughed through the trees and sent leaves whispering along the muddy road. The storm had momen- tarily ceased, but gave warning of strik- ing again with renewed vigor. A horseman, his mount slipping and sliding, came down the lonely lane, try- ing vainly to urge his foam-covered beast to a trot. A bolt of lightning cracked with earsplitting violence close at hand. The horse reared, his rider shouted, and was pitched headlong to earth. The rain came slashing down to lash with derisive whips the cursing man and the fast-disappearing mount. James Clyde, stupidly picking him- self up, futilely brushed wet mud from his clothes. The wind, hurrying the rain along, beat against his back to arouse him from his stupor. Gathering his cloak around him and recovering his hat, he hunched himself' against the storm and set off down the road. He had not gone far when water began to trickle down his neck. Growling and snarling, he clutched his cloak about his neck and slithered on. A coy little drop insinuated itself inside his boot. Its companion followed and soon more hastened to work for his discomfort. Wet autumn leaves passed their slimy fingers over his face, and branches reached out to seize him. Just like his brother to make a will keeping him waiting for ten years to inherit what was rightfully his, and then insert a clause forcing him to claim the house at midnight no later than September 8, 1838. Well, soon he would have no reason to regret this excursion. If that sniveling lawyer got there on time, James Clyde would soon be in a dry bed, and what is more, a rich man. What a time could be had with that money! A thousand parties like the one last night, he promised himself. In a concert of thunder and lightning he arrived at a dripping iron gate. In the weird illumination of the storm, he saw the house against the sky. He shiv- ered. The old place looked gloomy, like a fitting rendezvous for the ghosts that the village folk believed to inhabit it. Tugging and pulling at the gate, the new master of Clyde House struggled to enter his domain. At last he wrenched open the gate and in a fit of impatient anger slammed it shut and viciously kicked his inanimate tormentor. Def- initely out of breath, Clyde climbed the weed-grown drive to the house. The place oppressed him, heavy with knowl- edge and five centuries of combating the elements. It seemed to squat pro- tectingly over the surrounding land. The bars that its neurotic, previous owner had had placed over the windows gave it a distasteful prison-aspect. He reflected that James Clyde would have to be careful or he might find himself living in a prison, but not for long, not for long. Mounting the steps, he hesitated be- fore the heavy door. He shivered. What might be behind it? He frowned at his thoughts and muttered to himself, Don't be a fool, Jim, my boy. There's nothing there that can harm you. Ghosts make the very best caretakers. Inserting the key and forcing the rusty lock, he stepped into the house. A rush of dusty, damp air slapped his face. Heavy with the damp and neglect of years, the house was not a pleasant place. A gust of rain reminding him that it was drier inside than out, he entered and closed the door. Lighting a candle that he took from his pocket, he looked disgustedly about. He held the candle up. Revealed in the unmerciful light, his lined, red face and bloodshot eyes told of a young man prematurely old as the result of concentrated dissi- pation. Heavy layers of dust covered every- thing. The house was just as it had been when the body of his older brother had been borne from it to the grave. N-o one had had enough interest or thoughtfulness to have the house pre- pared after the disappointed heir had rushed from his brother's funeral, as drunk with the wine of new-found free- dom as he was to be so many times on more material spirits. The room lay under the heavy dust of years of waiting for life to come to it Once beautiful furniture once more. stood with mold on once-gleaming, satin-smooth wood, and rot working in- sidiously in beautiful brocade uphol- stery. Cracked paintings, rotting tap- estries, a small bronze draped in shroud- like cobwebs-all evidences of the ma- licious workings of time. This was the reception room that Robert had lavished so much money upon in order to sustain the elegance of the name of Clyde in its country-wide glory. Here for two cen- turies the Clydes had, on the first of