Plymouth High School - Pilgrim Yearbook (Plymouth, MA)

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THE PILGRIM 29 WHAT LUCK, UNCLE? 'HNCLE LETHER sat on a downtown street corner. In his hand he held a sheaf of pencils and a tin cup, the latter for the con- venience of the purchasers of the former, and on his knees he held Sorrowful Susie, a dilapi- dated accordian. It was more through Sorrow- ful Susie that he earned a living than through the pencils, for, after all, pencils are only a commodity that one can buy almost anywhere, whereas Sorrowful Susie advertised Uncle Lether at least a block off, and when the traf- fic was light, two blocks. There were no business opportunities for Uncle Le-ther's kind, but on a busy street cor- ner, sitting on a camp stool with the whining of Sorrowfull Susie to attract attention, he managed to earn a living of sorts from Mobile's kind-hearted public. It was of necessity a hand-to-mouth existence. Changes of season were propitious because the people discarded certain clothes and assumed certain others, and regular patrons were likely to drop a bun- dle of wearables alongside Uncle Lether's camp stool. But dependence on the public was a pre- carious thing. Happily, life and experience had made of Uncle Lether a philosopher, if not a stoic. Years of ploughing and spading under semi-tropical sky, of struggle against the in- imical forces of nature and of life had bred in him endurance. He bore the fogs of early win- ter and dampness of early spring, showers and downpours, humidity and drouths, sunlight and thunderstorm. Sometimes when the sun grow hot, he shifted his stool to a shady spot. When it rained, he let it rain on him, unless the downpour became too great. Then he would retire to a convenient entry or portico, where he would efface himself humbly against a wall. Uncle Lether brought Sorrowful Susie's whine to a creaking halt and looked into the tin cup. He shook it and counted his earnings despond- ently. It was five 0'clock in the afternoon and the number of pencils had barely decreased that day. Spec folks don' wan' buy pencils Chris'- mus Eve, he told himself, apologizing for his negligent public. Got dere min's busy some- whar's else. Christmas had been hard on Uncle Lether. Crowds were thicker and more hurried and more careless. Sometimes people stepped on Uncle Lether's feet and jostled his stool almost from under him. He had to guard Sorrowful Susie carefully, too, because dam- age to Sorrowful Su-sie would be a tragedy for her owner. Darkness comes easily in midwinter, even to Mobile. A dinginess fell upon the streets, footsteps quickened, here and there a light twinkled. Soon it would be dark and there was slight chance of Sorrowful Susie's at- tracting any trade after nightfall, even if Uncle Lether's aching old body could hold out longer. He sighed and braced himself for a final effort. One more tune from Sorrowfull Susie and then he'd go home. He coaxed a whine gently from her shabby and faded folds. His old tired voice rose quaveringly in earnest strains against Susie's moan. No clink of coin cheered his ear, however, so he rose reluct- antly and prepared to close up his business for the day. A han-dsome limousine slowed up by traffic droned at the corner and its occupant, looking out lanquidly, saw the old man. The despondent figure held the observer's eye. Uncle Lether saw the splendid car, the liveried chauffeur, and gave a gasp at the figure sitting in the back seat. He blinked a time or two. Lokky dat, will yuh! First time I ebber seed nigger chauffin' nigger. Black ez de ace ob spades en dress lak white man, hunk, hunk! Neveh seed nigger like that befo' Look lak king ob cah-na-val, he do. , Others besides Uncle Lether stared at a sight unusual in Mobile-the sight of a black man groomed and pressed lolling in a monster car, with another black man for chauffeur. Santa Claus himself wouldn't have aroused such com- ment, amusement, and in some cases, indigna- tion, but in Uncle Lether it aroused only mirth. The stranger, his light gray felt at a doggy angle on his head, leaned out of the window of his car and gazed at Uncle Lether. Finally he gave an order to his chauffeur, leaped from the car, and approached Uncle Lether. What luck, Uncle? he addressed the as- tonished old man. How dat? Wot, suh? Luck? Hunk? Ain't had no luck today. Guess folks too busy ruslin' gifts to want pencils, Suh. The stranger peered into Uncle Lether's cup. A pucker of thought creased his polished fore- head. Then, a sudden decision seemd to strike him. He took off his hat and clapped Uncle Lether's old flapping one on his head in itil place. Give me your coat, he told the old man. He threw Uncle Lether his own neatly- pressed garment and grabbed Uncle Lether's. Then an extraordinary scene ensued. .Gone in a minute was the elegant young negro. In his place was a Ugenuwine nigger, thought the astonished Uncle Lether, with a shabby hat over his woolly head and scare-crow coat flap- ping on his swaying figure, and shuming feet like those of a cottonfield darkie. Sorrowful Susie woke up startled, whined vigorously, and passersby were no longer indiferent. It was as if Sorrowful Susie had recognized a master hand. Boldly out to the curb the stranger jigged, playing Sorrowful Susie in a way that awoke memories of plantation life. He was obstructing traffic, but nobody cared. People were blocking the sidewalk, but nobody cared. The stranger paused, a clamor arose. The droll, good-natured face beamed amiably at the crowd, and the crowd guffawed back. De early bird taks de worm, B-ut who gwine tek de worm enyhow? A policeman came up frowning to investigate the mob. But he stayed to listen. The singer was growing sentimental. Negro spirituals held the crowd spellbound. Before their magic had subsided, the quick- footed negro was in and out of the crowd with Uncle Lether's old hat held firmly in both hands. Coaxing here, joking here, and flatter- ing there, he collected. When he returned, the ancient hat sagged dangerously. Uncle Lether's cyes popped when he saw the money. Mah hebbenly Fadder, he expostulated. The stranger was removing Uncle Lether's old coat and putting on his own elegant one. He rearranged his hat and trousers and dusted off his shoes. I hope that you have a good Christmas, Uncle, he said. I was born in Alabama my- self, and seeing you brought back old mem- ories. Good luck to you, Uncle. Uncle Lether barely managed to emit a Tanky, Suh, as the stranger walked briskly across the sidewalk, leaped into his car, and was swallowed by the slowly-moving stream of traffic. It was all a dream to Uncle Lether.

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28 THE PILGRIM Junior Poetry Page 'IIIIIIIIIIIIllllllllllllllllllIllllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIlllIIUIIIIllllllIllllllllIIIIII!IIIIIIIIIIIlllllllllllllIllllllilllllllllllllllllIIlllllllllllIIIIIIIIIIIUIIIIIIIIIIIIZIIIIIIIIIIllllllIIIIllIIIIIllIIIIIIIllllllllllllllllllllb TREES 2 VOLCANO 5 fWith apologies to Joyce Kilmerj E Sultry, sullen, E I think that I shall never see E Grumbling, roaring, E A sight more wretched than a tree. E A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed 2 With signs of, 'tHomer's Tourist Rest g 5 A tree who looks at cars all day 2 And shouts, Good eats one mile away , 5 A tree that may in summer wear 5 Garage signs-some here, some there, 2 Upon whose bosom snow has lain E Above the carving, Tom loves Janef' E Signs are nailed by fools like me, ij But only God can make a tree. g Boiling and seething- , E Smoking, furious, 5 Mad with power, E A raging beast-impri-soned- E Steaming with rage g Until it is loose. E Then it crawls down the crater side, E Like many serpents, ' 5 Writhing, stealing ever closer E Upon the sleeping village E At its side. 25' It envelops everything in lava- E Like the sinister potent of an evil witch 2 Pleased with destructiong g Bubbling with pleasure, it hesitates, E And cools to a hard black crust, E Which hides from the view of man g The evil Work. E Elizabeth Anderson E Eileen Payson E .IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIllllllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIQLIIIIKIIIIIIlIIIIIIHIHIIIIIIIIIUIIIIIllIIIIlIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIUIIIIVIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIllllIIIIllIIIIIlIIIIIIIIIllIllIIIIIIIIIIIIUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE 5 ANGLING E E A summer day, a rod and line, a dozen hooks E Q or so E g A can of bait. With all these things, guess 5 E where a boy would go! E .ng No other sport could equal itg and what more Q E would you wish E ' Than just to go to Riley's Pond to spend the 5 E day and fish? E R E I like to sit upon the bank, as quiet as can be. E Q And watch the water smooth and still, until a Q 5 sign I see E 5 That means I have a bite, and then, of course, E E I pull the line Q 3 And catch a Blue Gill or a whale-or maybe g E eight or nine. f E There is no joy like fishing on a sunny sum- E E mer's day, E Q To take your rod and line and hook, and pass Q E 4 the hours away - E And think of only pleasant things, with all your E E worries gone. - Say, get your old straw hat, I'm goin' fishin', E 5 boys, come on! n Vernon Kirkey 'IIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIIIlllllIIIIIIIIIIllIIIIIIIIllllllllllIlllilIUlllilIlilllILLIIIUIIIIIIIIIIIIIlllllllllIllllIIIIIIIIIKIIIIIIIIIIllIIllIIIl-EllIII!llllIllllIIllllIIlllIIIIIIIUIIIIIIIIIIIIIQ E TO A FARMER E Scurrying madly through the streets, E As bees drone to their hive, 5 Onward in the scorching heat E To a day behind factory walls- 5 And you, farmer, are not satisfied. E Yours is the quiet peaceful life :Q With the sun the stars the sk ... s 1 yn' E You do not know the laborer's strife E Nor long hours behind grim walls, 3 And yet, you are not satisfied. : Yours is the kind of life- , 3 Utopia come true, - Your days with nature all are spent, E Your love of man will never die, 5 E Oh, farmer, do you wonder why?-we envy you. E E Florence Canucci R .4 FLOOD ' E Swirling waters, black and swelling, S Drifting wreckage-some man's dwellingg E Shrieking wind, bleak and blowing, 5 Angry river banks o'erflowingg E Quaking people, sick with dread, E Floating bodies, cold and dead, E Blazing fires red and flaming, ig Disease and illness death proclaimingg E Human sufering, pain, and blood,- 5 All are caused by a river's flood. E Jeanette Hatton ,, gilllllllIIIIIIKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIllllllllllIllllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIllllllllllllIIIZJIIIIIIIIIIIIIJIIIEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIlllllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKIIIllllllllllllllIllllllllllllllllllllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIF

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30 THE PILGRIM It couldn't have happened, he said to himself as he hobbled his way homeward along the avenue. He stopped at a dazzling electric sign visible for blocks ahead. It revealed two colored figures on a billboard, one an elegant, suave man, the other a rowdy, jigging, cotton-field darky. In letters two feet high were the words: Dolty Walters, The Greatest Negro Comedian in the World, Fresh from European Triumphs -Christmas Week Only at the Arbian Theatre! Uncle Lether gaped at the figures-but of course Uncle Lether couldn't read. Vernon Kirkey '38 LEARNING TO SKATE af HERE comes a time in your life when you wonder, what move to make next, and whether, after you have made that move, it will prove to have been for the best. That time comes when, on a cool December morning, you put on a pair of skates for the first time in your life, and sally forth upon the ice to seek new fields of adven-ture. You slowly place your feet on the ice and are quite surprised to Hnd that you are able to stand on them at all. Your pleasure is short- lived, however, for as you advance one foot cautiously, your other foot comes up not quite so carefully. It is not long before both feet are out in front and gaining fast, and you have the rather giddy feeling that you are in an ele- vator which has broken loose and is falling ten THE F LAMING SWORD Many are the years we've toiled, Fashioning a gleaming blade. May its honor ne'er be soiled- Hope and faith in us betrayed. Flaming sword! Wrought of finest, truest steel- Knowledge, service, labor, trust, Splendid precepts these to seal Our pact. Light our path! You must, Flaming sword! Tempered in the fires of woe, Sorrow, hopes once dashed aside Test our weapon as we go Forward. Raise our courage tried, Flaming sword! Gladsome hours bejewel the hilt, Fill our hearts with mem'ries fond- Friendships that of joys were built, Closely may you weld the bond, Flaming sword! i'Thirty-seven, comrades all, Flourish high your flashing brands, Sally forth from castle wall! May your presence guide our hands, Flaming sword! Phyllis M. Johnson ,37 floors to the cellar. When the crash comes, you sit there stunned and wonder if you had better try it again. If the day is sunny and rather Warm and the sun has formed a small amounft of moisture on the surface of the ice in a few places, you invariably pick one of these in which to land, which is disconcerting to say the least. In this event you are not quite so likely to sit and meditate as you were in the former case. Finally, however, you get up and try again, and perhaps this time you go about five steps before the ice comes rushing up to meet you the second time. Before a half hour is over, you have been able to glide a few yards with- out a fall, and you have learned to fall more scientifically in order to reecive only a mini- mum of bruises. , You then notice that the other skaters go faster by sticking their foot into the ice and shoving. You try it and find that the method works. However, the following summer you realize that the method is not for general use when you strap on a pair of roller skates and attempt to dig your foot into the smooth ce- ment sidewalk on which you are skating to find it a bit more unyielding than was the ice. The rest of the morning you devote to the improvement of your technique, and you ob- serve with cheer that the number of falls is de- creasing. When you go home at noon with aching feet, you try to kid yourself into think- ing that you have learned to skate, but you know that it will be a long time before you become a second Irving Jaffee. Richard Tubbs '39 CEMETERY IN LATE AUTUMN Still is the wind, in heavy, brooding peace,- And dim, the light. Drab whorls of draggled leaves Long-dead, trace slow parabolas from weary trees, Who, with stark limbs uplifted, wait -and grieve. The somber gray of this ephemeral day Blendslwith the gray of headstones, dims their mes. Did ever grass her soothing fingers lay On this hard earth? Did glossy myrtle vines Embrace these stones and intimately cling To fragrant ground? Did mauve wistaria gay Enrich the place with jewels of amethyst? Once-it seems long ago, the glance of Spring And Midas-touch of sun made gladsome, this, Awoke its beauty, drove the gloom away. Mary Bodell '37 WOODS IN WINTER MOONIGHT The round full moon its bright light sheds On whitened earth this winter night. Each pine tree bears its load of snow In silhouette against the sky. The rabbits from their sylvan beds, Small birds from perches start in fright On hearing near at hand their foe, The great horned owl, no killer shy. The silence and the stillness clear Are further broken by the sounds Of geese that flee the frozen north, Whose honking loud makes known their flight. Now here we see a white-tailed deer That leaps away with graceful bounds. The fox in search of mice sets forth, Alive are woods on winter's night. L. B. R. Briggs, 3rd '37