Plymouth High School - Pilgrim Yearbook (Plymouth, MA)

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,1-11 . ,,i in V. L- 91 -4 'f Y. .5 ' '- yn' wi' 'TTY y ' ..-Q-. ,,,,,- yy- ' -tl -5 4 jrzf gi . T, 'LN '-fr-:ig T1 f - - f, y-f . if Us A .- ' Q-' VVJZE: , A t 1.11 Jr., ' 6' ' T - -at Q - W ! . i ., -.,. -, 1 2 U it 'A' V I 1- X g U-if 4 Y 4' iffy! gf : 1 - . y fi. , ' iff qg' A 12'-7-Q71 Qi. V - - ' . .' Q-7:1 L n LPf- 1-is-.1:?-21'-- 4.4--Du Jas! ani! just Beside the back piazza And bordering the lawn, There stands a stately ash tree That I love to look upon. In spring, when all the neighbors' Have sprouted sprigs of green, Our temperamental ash tree Is still Zeafless, stark, and clean. But ere the heat of summertime Requires protecting shade, Our guard against the sun is then In verdant garb arrayed. When other trees in autumn With matchless hues abound, Our ash tree stands denuded, Its leaves upon the ground. And these, obedient to her call, As winds blow high and low To Nature's most eccentric child, Are last to come, and first to go. FAITH Mn.LmAN '42 trees x -f . 3f'if'f -e?fT' 1 'Q-11-fl? ' ' , .4 2-2 ,Q-TIL 'L y 7 1, ., -if .f.L.Qa'.: i .Y :'1Q1l l ---... f we - . - 3 -ff--,,f - Q '.. Li? Mr if n 5 W Sf' A W - ' 'A ,'f,,- . -XV Y! , . , 4 W xk 'K .f I :-if - . ' 1iNI ' 3!1 ' is .7 ,. - 4 KX fi B ...-y 7, ,yy lup- Page 30 My ..J41loa5e My house is on a grassy knoll And overlooks the seag It battles all the winter storms, But safely harbors me. My house is low and rambling With cozy little rooms, Where in the winter evenings No fear of world strife looms. My house has two large sen- tinels Which guard my sleep at nightg The wind soughs through their branches And soothes my dreams till light, My house is more than shelter, It grows in strength each year: It has a personality That will not disappear. BETTY Vmtrs '42 www V1.1 VI, f ' 'EF' a' 9' W 'Y up 7 'QL lf' . R .. V, Mya ' ,fi ,' '. ,,.. f fy fi -.1 il 4 If fy!! I Qs Q I 9 , Xxx li i -f I If! fx 1 ,f ff? tg, A a ,iff gif l fu 4 K xy XXL' ' X 4 ml, fr , A uk I -4-e , 2 ,x .f f . 4 'N ' Q ks . I ' N J ' , Z! fi r j , hxmgix if . ','.-91: ' xl . vi I- i L . 7- V, .K 1.28 'A ' V, 53024. 44. .,z'.ff.l, The sun is set,' and darkness creeps So softly o'er a weary country- side. Dark clouds hang low: the pale moon peeps Between the clouds, then slips away to hide. Soft snowflakes fall: all nature sleeps Beneath a glistening blanket, far and wide. So rest, my sweetp in slum- ber's deeps I leave you now. Sleep well till morningtide! J ENNETTE Fmmxs '42

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T! f i ,P LITERPQTURE ,QQ N 3 CON TEN TM EN T Few are the hearts .where true content Does in its fullness dwell, And few are those who rightly prize Its calm and holy spell. He who true contentment feels, However low his lot, Holds in his hand a jewel rare That .will forsake him not. R-Pesf SEASCAPE Laces of foam on dazzling shores Encrust the hem of the ocean strand, Gleaming, glistening, shining and white, Capriciously tossed by the ocean's hand. Star-spattered skies shine darkly on high,' Limpid, the ocean lies sleeping below. Sighing in slumber, tossing a bit While the breeze croons a Barcarolle ELsn-: SALMI 42 soft and low- DIANA IN DECEMBER The moon In shimmering, silvery silence Shakes streams of scintillating snow- stars From out her sable cloak Upon a sleeping countryside. Then, sweeping up her silken skirts, She silently departs: And as she steals away to meet the sun- rise, She looks back, sees that all is peace, And smiles. JENNETTE Fmmxs '42 NOCTURNAL VISITANT I see the fog roll in at night And hide the winking stars from view. It steals and creeps on muffled feet And veils our town in dismal hue. Along the roads the street lights bright Are now choked by this clutching dew. When morning comes, the fog takes leave And drifts on to some other place: Our town stands out in sunshine blessed. The roads, wet from the fog's em- brace, Give ample proof for all to know- A London night has passed in space. G1-:onus CANUcc1 '42 TRAVELLING MAN Christopher Clifford is packing his bag, Christopher's going home- He's travelling light with a change for the night, But he won't need a toothbrush or comb. Christop.her's taking a bottle or two, For Christopher's fo n d of his drink- A couple of Hasks of the finest bre.w, But it isn't the kind you'd think! For Christopher Clifford is ten days old, And he's leaving the hospital soon: Snug in a beautiful blanket rolled, He bids farewell with a tune. MARY MULCAHY '42 Page 29

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SUNRISE S the blackness before dawn melted to a reddish grey, a group of men on a half-built bridge waited breathlessly for the first sight of the sun. Hanged at sunrise were the words which were running through the minds of all. With a circle of death draped loosely around his neck, a short, blond Confederate soldier glanced nervously toward a younger Yankee lieutenant. The sun was rising, in a moment there would be one less Confederate soldier in this troubled world. Bowling Stuart had lived all his life in Virginia. At the age of twenty- five he had married a fair young Southern belle and had taken title to his father's plantation. With two children, he had lived happily for six years and now, when he was the happiest, the Yankees were separating him from all that he held dear. Enrolled as a colonel in the Confederate army, he had been captured just twenty miles from Southern territory. He had been sentenced to be hanged as a spy at sunrise on this morning of October 31, 1863. When the lieutenant signaled, Bowling felt the support beneath give way. Down, down he went, the rope tightened, his neck snapped-was this water? Gasping for air while shots whizzed by from the bridge above, he ducked his head and drifted with the swirling current. A mile down the river, he staggered upon the bank. Shivering from his wet clothes and the cold of the morning, he set out on a run to keep warm. Only twenty miles to safety, he thought. Ah! they won't catch me this time. It's a good thing I kept my eyes open while I was a captive. As the sun climbed high overhead, he left the river to avoid a North- ern encampment. How ironical! A week ago I was a condemned man in that very place. It would be fine indeed if I can get food there and steal a horse and uniform without being caught. Let me see, how can I do it? My matches are dry. I'll set the woods on fire and draw all the men from camp. Quickly he lighted the surrounding underbrush and darted as fast as possible to a thicket outside the mess hall. There's the alarm. It won't be long now-there goes the chef. He slipped silently in among the steaming kettles and ate hurriedly. Having found a worn uniform and a good horse, he left camp without much difficulty. By morning he would be sleeping in his own bed. He would see his children and hold his wife in his arms again. Dawn streaked the sky as he rode past the fields which had once been filled with singing darkies. Then Lincoln had given to the nation the Emancipation Proclamation. The soft southern morning lightened his heart as he lifted the knocker on the front door. Steps were approaching. Bowling, it's youg you're home, darling! sobbed his wife. How tightly her warm arms held his neck-she was choking him! Everything went black, Colonel Bowling Stuart was dead. Right shoulder arms. Forward-march! - The squad disappeared over the brow of a hill while the body of Colonel Stuart swung silently in the morning mist. MALCOLM CHAMBERLAIN '43 Page 31